adapting to change
by fuckin-rodent
Summary: If Butch stopped having panic attacks at the mere mention of black hair, green eyes and a rebellious streak, he'd be able to actually go confront the real thing. Maybe. Though, with his luck, Butch has a feeling it isn't likely. But when the boys end up finally seeing the girls again, he can't help but notice that there's something slightly off. These aren't the girls he remembers.
1. chapter one

**RATED M** just in case (there's swearing and maybe violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)  
 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.):** 14,481

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. this fic ranges between the boys' POV, but i still haven't decided if i want to try it out from the girls' perspective yet.

/SO THIS CHAPTER WAS ORIGINALLY UP BEFORE I TRIED TO UPDATE IT; A FEW THINGS MAY HAVE CHANGED, BECAUSE I HAVE HAD TO REVIVE AN OLD DRAFT OF THIS CHAPTER DUE TO DIFFICULTIES (im blaming ffn i literally no idea what happened) - FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO MAY HAVE NOTICED THAT THIS CHAPTER HAD CHANGED *TO THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A DIFFERENT FIC OF MINE*, PLEASE NOT THAT I HAVE NOW FIXED IT. THIS CHAPTER IS THE *FIRST CHAPTER OF 'ADAPTING TO CHANGE', AS IF SHOULD'VE BEEN.

i had exported the document for ATC ch1 in order to beta it; to make corrections to any misspellings and fixing the format of the dialogue, or edit details that i had messed up (according to my outline of my au.) unfortunately, something happened (again, i'm blaming ffn: i _know_ i replaced this chapter with the edited document, not the document containing ch1 of 'everybody screams at the end of the world'.) hopefully i've sorted it.

as aforementioned, some details have been changed - i don't think it's necessary to reread this chapter for those details specifically, but some tones may have been changed, or names changed, [ie; the chapter titles i couldn't remember/recover, so i've just made up some new ones for this chapter]. if there is anything glaringly obvious, i'll try to fix it.

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** nobody will miss the shampoo /or/ seven years is a long time to let a friendship fester

* * *

Coming back to Townsville is like, well, coming back to Townsville. Underwhelmed, unimpressed, unsettling. Mainly because it's Townsville, and it's never been much of an extravagant place to begin with. A little town somehow pinned on the map, backed up against a beach and a whole lot of desert. The population's never reached above ten thousand or so. That's _with_ the tourist attractions.

Though, having said that, the tourist attractions are pretty crap as well. A measly boardwalk with an arcade den nearby doesn't really amount to much entertainment. Really, the boardwalk is just there for teens to scamper off too at night and have bonfires when the tide is low.

So yeah. The most of a rise he gets out of returning to this hellhole is the memories. Mostly unpleasant, but they get sweeter each time he thinks about them.

And who _is_ he, to be exact? Well, none other than Butch Jojo, of course. Y'know – daring, dashing, debonair. Or, better known as _'douchebag'._ As in the insult. It doesn't really matter if he's remembered or not, to be honest, he's not back in this jerkwater town to cause trouble. Mostly. As long as he's in Red's (uh, that's _Brick's_ ) supervision, anyways. Other than that, his actions cannot be held accountable. That being said, his older brother would probably skin him alive if he stirred up too much commotion.

Butch has been struck with bouts of nostalgia since the plane started flying over the familiar scene below. The coastline was the most obvious thing from this high up. Deep blue waters along the shore, the Pacific Ocean glittering in the sunlight from this far up. He could make out a few surfers among the waves. The second thing had been the long backroads; much lengthier and... desolate, distant from the rest of Townsville. They look like they haven't been used in a while. Endless stretches of asphalt, driving away from the town.

Almost as if by compulsion, his eyes wandered to the general area of the Utonium household. Too far up to see the exact house from the plane window, and his enhanced vision only let him squint so far. He made out the neighborhood – blurry at most. Terracotta roof tiles, stretches of green lawns and gravel drives. Butch couldn't make out any other details. Or which house was specifically the Utoniums'. Not that it matters, to be honest. Red already made it clear that they weren't going to go purposely finding the girls at any rate. "We're here to finish highschool. After that, I don't give a fuck what you two get up to," Had been his exact words.

Okay, maybe not his _exact_ words, but just about.

Butch didn't really care for specifics anyways.

Then the plane had landed. Something about exiting the plane in an orderly fashion, grabbing luggage from the overhead carriers, blah blah blah. Butch had spent roughly nine hours on this damn flight from Havana with both screaming children and Boomer in his ear (though those two are both one in the same, he supposed.) Like hell was Butch getting off this plane in an 'orderly fashion'. He grabbed his carry-on luggage and shouldered through the mass of passengers. First Class wasn't too happy when he ducked in and stole a handful of those tiny tequila bottles, but fuck them.

Red hadn't been happy, either, to find Butch already off at the baggage carousel. Effectively abandoning his older brother with the youngest is never the most pleasant surprise. Boomer can talk up a storm when he wants to. And when he isn't? Singing or snoring. It was a deafening, dizzying, detestable on-repeat playlist of all three. For _nine hours_. Turns out Red had booked himself a seat away from his two younger brothers. This left Butch with Boomer and a single mother with an upset child. Apparently it was the brat's first plane ride, but what does that matter?

So yeah; airport hadn't been the greatest time of his life. Especially when they found out the hotel they were planning on crashing at for the night had to cancel their booking due to a wedding. Cash whores. Butch would bet money on the fact that the hotel canceled _them_ in turn for the wedding simply because they were willing to pay more to rent out the entire establishment.

And that leaves them here, now. Butch stares at the receptionist. She looks a lot like the hostess women on the plane. Blonde hair pinned back into a bun, near immaculate uniform, shiny name-tag: from the perfect makeup to the form-fitting clothing. Even her smile was the same. Big, white, customer-service levels of 'I'm ready to die now, somebody please end me'. The receptionist's voice is patronizing as she repeats, very clearly, very slowly, "So sorry boys. You'll have to find someplace else for the night." _Dammit_.

A glance to Brick says he's still struggling to come to terms with this sudden development. The only silver-lining to all of this is that Boomer passed out on one of the lounge chairs in the lobby. Downside to that is that Butch _knows_ he's going to be the one to drag him around after this.

"Cool," Butch drawls, craning his neck at the ceiling. Maybe God is smirking down at them right now. A huge 'fuck you' for being shitty kids in the past.

Brick sighs heavily, wiping a hand down his face. His expression is eerily blank, like it always is when he's both frustrated and calculating. Butch isn't sure if his older brother is deciding how easily he could get away with the murder of some nobody receptionist, or if he's actually trying to figure out where they'll be sleeping tonight.

Probably murder, huh?

Butch strolls over to the vending machine, shoves a couple quarters into the slot. There isn't much option. Bottled water, canned sodas, crappy granola bars. All of it's overpriced. Then again, he doesn't know what he's expecting from a hotel. "Red, you want anything?"

Before Brick can answer the receptionist clears her throat politely, "You're not actually allowed to use the vending machine unless you're staying here."

Brick answers anyways, "Get me a Dr Pepper." Nodding, Butch jams in the buttons for a Dr Pepper and a Sprite. The cans fall heavily into the tray at the bottom.

Grabbing them, he shoves his can into his pocket, throwing the other one to Brick. He doesn't care if Brick catches it or not. Butch sighs, bending down to throw Boomer over his shoulder. The younger brother groans in his sleep. "C'mon Red," He calls.

Brick sighs noisily, "Don't call me that." There's shuffling. He's probably picking up his luggage. They didn't bring much. Clothes, odd bits and pieces, electronics that were smaller than a desk monitor and computer. Butch carts his and Boomer's suitcases behind him, shouldering his gymbag onto his other shoulder. He dangles Boomer's backpack over his head; the blond's neck makes a good holder. They hang around outside the hotel. The night is...relatively young. Nine-ish, now, but hopefully that's not too late to try and book someplace else for the night.

Brick raises an eyebrow at him, "Where are we going?" The question is flat, or suspicious, or maybe both. Leave it to Brick to have no faith.

Instead of commenting on Brick's poorly disguised skepticism, Butch shifts Boomer's weight on his shoulder. Grunting, he answers, "We're calling a damn taxi for where we're going."

Brick raises both eyebrows this time, "Got another hotel in mind?" As if Butch would try to make Brick sleep anywhere else than a bed. That's the same as trying to trick a cat into the water. No bed: no dice.

Butch nods his head anyways, "Just get a taxi. Or an Uber. Something." He's tired. He kinda wants to take Boomer's lead and just pass out, but with Brick, it's hard to figure out if he'd just leave them or actually give a shit for once.

The only response he gets is, "I doubt this shithole does Uber." The pale glow of Brick's phone reassures him somewhat. It's not often that he and Brick actually get along. Usually it's either Butch making fun of whatever plans Brick has in mind, and, well, Brick being reasonably dubious to go along with any of Butch's ideas. Still, this is nice.

Fresh air, though slightly briny from the not-so far away sea, it's soothing. A refreshing breeze. This town is in the middle of a desert, after all. It's bound to be hot. The nights are cool, though. With such little cloud cover, the stars are like bright pinpricks in an expanse of dark blue. Not black, like an any other populated city. Sometimes you'd get stars, back in Havana, but not many. With Havana being Cuba's capital, it's a pretty big tourist trap. Townsville doesn't even near the business of that place. Slightly pathetic, honestly.

A few minutes pass. Probably longer than that, but there's little probing from Brick. Maybe he's just as tired as Butch is. He glances over, teasing smirk at the ready, "So, did you enjoy a whole nine hours away from your annoying brothers?"

Brick scrubs a hand over his face, "Ugh, I _wish_." Butch waits for him to continue. "There was a woman who just _wouldn't_ shut up. And then her kid kept having to get up to go to the bathroom every ten minutes."

Butch snorts at him, "Welcome to my world, man." He gets no reply. A car pulls up onto the curb. "Taxi?"

Brick nods, tapping on the driver's window. It rolls down. There's a brief chat between them. The guy driving is way too chirpy for this time, but Townsville's always been weird like that. "Oh sure," The driver says, "The boot should be open!" Butch drags his and Boomer's luggage into the boot, opting to keep his gymbag with him. He and Brick awkwardly maneuver the youngest brother into the back, buckling him in. He gets in on the other side, Brick already in the passenger seat.

"So, where to, guys?" The driver asks. Butch rattles off the name as if it was just waiting to be said, "You got any idea where West Boulevard is?"

The driver nods, "Sure do. Anywhere specific, or just West?"

Butch hums, "Just West." Nodding once more, the driver takes them away. He catches Brick's eye in the mirror. There's no hint of recognition in those eyes, but there's definitely curiosity. (Has it been that long? Have they been estranged so drastically from this place?) Brick's shrewd gaze doesn't falter. Vicious, but curious.

Butch just smiles back. As reassuring as he can, but he's been told his smiles always look a little too mischievous for his own good. So, it probably doesn't help that much.

'Trust me' must not be the impression Brick gets – not today, not ever.

* * *

He has a feeling he fell asleep somewhere along the line.

He wakes up blearily to Brick roughly shoving him out of the car, grumbling, "You owe me twenty bucks, you dick." Butch mumbles an acknowledgement around a yawn.

Boomer, along with their piled luggage, sits on the sidewalk. At least the blond's awake this time. He grins, curious in a more eager way than Brick was, "Where are we going, dude?"

Butch scratches at his jaw, "You'll see." He's honestly sorta dreading to get there. Only a couple buildings down the street. He doesn't remember the address exactly, but that's not his biggest issue. It's whether they can still get that damn 'friends-only' discount that the hotel offered back when they used to still live here. Though, he has a vague suspicion that his (forged) membership card might have expired by now. Dammit.

Onwards they go. Boomer's actually carrying his own shit this time, which is a plus. Both boys lag behind Butch. It's beginning to dawn on him that, no, they really _don't_ remember this place. All the nice glossy windows, with their white-wash walls, the shop signs – at least, that's what it used to be. It's a lot more rundown than he remembers: loose brickwork, chipping paint on the side of buildings, foggy windows. Huh. It doesn't look so welcoming in the nighttime. (It's because it's dark, he tells himself; nothing looks nice at night, it all looks foreboding and sinister. It's not because the deterioration is a testament to their absence.)

After a few more minutes of walking, Butch stops in front of the familiar hotel. More like a shitty motel, except that it's in the center of town instead of on the outskirts, like a motel actually would be. Butch waits for recognition to settle in. His brothers are silent behind him.

Until Boomer groans, "Oh god, not _this_ trash heap."

Butch shrugs, "Hey, this trash heap is _cheap_ , a'ight, and their room service is actually decent, so quit complaining." Then, in true Butch fashion, he puffs up his chest and smirks, "'Sides, you should be thanking me. Your big brother Butch here -" He grins for effect, leaning into Boomer's space - "Just banked us beds for the night."

Somewhere still behind them, Brick mutters, "It's not that big of an achievement."

Butch scowls, "What, and you could do better? Like you could've gotten us a night lower than a hundred bucks." The oldest brother rolls his eyes, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

They share a look. Sternly, Brick states, "You're paying." Butch nods, waving him off. He grabs his suitcase before pushing through the doors of the hotel. It's a little stingier than he remembered it being. The carpet feels stiff under his feet – like dust, or grime. A weird stain here or there, the walls more yellowed and the light flickers in the lobby.

The receptionist startles in his seat. Like he's surprised somebody actually came to stop by. He glances them up and down, frowning some, "Oh...hello?" Not the most welcoming response. Butch shrugs either way, but ultimately lets Boomer do the talking. He's good at that, the fucking chatterbox.

Details are shared – "Yes sir, there's a double twin room available." – yadda yadda yadda. Butch scratches his cheek, before handing his card over to Boomer. Swipe; beep, something else about transaction. His card gets handed back to him, wedged back into his wallet, and then the wallet dropped into his pocket. Boomer takes the keycard, before turning to the older siblings with a grin, "Let's go. I'm _tired_ , man."

The room is relatively easy to find. Not the most impressive thing ever, either. Butch also isn't impressed with the fact that it becomes immediately apparent that one of them would most likely be sleeping on the uncomfortable loveseat in the corner (or the floor.) Brick wordlessly raises an eyebrow at Boomer. The youngest brother squirms under the scrutiny, "He said there was a double-twin available -"

Butch snorts, moving quickly towards one of the beds, "Did you happen to mention that we were going to need three beds with that?" There's scuffling behind him, but he doesn't turn to look. Instead, Butch starts getting changed into his pajamas. It's relatively quick, considering all he needed to do was shuck off his jeans.

There's a brief pause as he lifts the comforter of his bed. No weird stains, or bed bugs. Well, okay – one weird stain on the corner of the mattress that looks like some sort of salad dressing, but nothing inherently disturbing. He climbs into bed without preamble. When he turns over, Boomer is squinting at him. "What, you're not gonna brush your teeth or anything?" The boy hedges.

He glowers at the blond, "And risk you stealing my bed? Get lost." Brick's already taken the other bed in the room. That goes unsaid. It also goes unsaid that Boomer doesn't dare try and steal it from Brick. That's why the oldest brother can freely stroll into the bathroom without fear of resorting to the floor for the night.

Butch has no such luxury.

Boomer's icy blues stare at him. Kind of like those pug-dogs that look like they're trying to resist biting your face off instead of begging sweetly. Needless to say, it does little to ramp up Butch's sympathy. "Fuck off, lil' bro," He warns, rolling over to face the wall. A whiny groan makes him pull the comforter tighter around himself. Though truth be told, he doesn't feel that tired anymore.

Maybe it's being back in this dump. With the gormless people of Townsville – damn near _oblivious_ to all the dangers that went on around them until it was in their face. It doesn't seem like there's much of a danger anymore, but the stupidity is still there. Naïve is something Butch can understand coming from the children, and, well, maybe the senile elderly. But he remembers being thrown through a loop every time something bad happened (whether it was caused by the brothers or some weird ass monster. Or robots. It was always one of the three.) Townsville is way more lackluster than it used to be. At least when they were kids, the shitty boardwalk was somewhat entertaining.

Things change, apparently.

Usually when things change, it's for the better.

He frowns at the wall, listening to the bickering behind him. The light is still on; a sickly light cast onto the room. Brick's just emerged from the shower, no doubt in his pajamas – the guy doesn't ever change in front of his brothers. Mainly because Butch would probably make a bunch of jokes. That's beside the point.

A creak comes from the loveseat. Boomer must have finally given up. But if that thing keeps squeaking all night, Butch is going to kick the blond to the floor.

A huff. A sigh. Another bitter grumble from the youngest brother. "Shut the fuck up, Boomer." That's Brick; voice low, somewhat slurred. Is he seriously drifting off already? Bitterly, Butch gripes to himself: _first class flight too much_ _stress for you, Red?_ Then again, Butch can fully understand why Brick would take first class. Even if it _was_ abandoning his brothers to the horrors of regular plane travel. (It meant Butch could steal the tiny tequila bottles on the way out.)

"Somebody turn out the damn light," Butch yawns, yanking his pillow over his head. What a mistake that was. It smells like sweaty gym socks and his hand is clutched to a part that's suspiciously crusty. He throws the pillow at Boomer.

The younger boy yelps, before sniffing loudly. "What the fuck – _ew._ Bro, why does this smell like week-old jizz?" Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.

He yawns, "Probably because it _is_ week-old jizz?"

Brick snorts from his side of the room, "Boomer turn the light out."

The blond sprawls out on the loveseat, his head hanging at an uncomfortable angle, "But you're closer -"

"Boomer. Turn the light out."

There's a dangerous edge to Brick's voice. Butch is just glad he doesn't have to forfeit the bed to get up. It's kinda funny watching Boomer spring up from the uncomfortable loveseat across the room. It's even funnier when he trips over something in the dark once the light's off. He can't contain his snickering. "Fuck you, asshole," Boomer grouches.

Very sweetly, Butch hums, "Nighty-night, lil' bro."

A couple minutes pass. He's not sure how many, but it's long enough that Brick's deep breathing fills the room. He doesn't _snore_ per se, but it's loud. Butch stares up at the ceiling. The streetlights from outside cast orangy-red stripes across the ceiling and floor at odd angles. Maybe it's because of how the blinds are settled. Still, it creates a weird ambiance in the room. Stiff air, an unreleased tension.

It could just be because Butch is sleeping in a hotel room. With a jizz-pillow now shoved behind the loveseat. He's not quite sure what the feeling is. Just because they haven't been here for a while – ah. That's probably it. Just some unfamiliarity setting him on edge, that's all. It'll wear off eventually, and Butch can _go to fucking sleep_.

Another few minutes pass. Maybe half an hour this time, since the moon's moved in the sky to a point where Butch can see it through the blinds. Half-moon. Obscured by a few dark clouds, but the stars are still persistent as they shine. Twinkle in an oddly abrasive way. Not delicate, like you'd think. Man, Townsville is still uncanny. At least that hasn't changed.

When his eyes finally start getting heavy, a breathy whisper fills the room. "Butch? You still awake?" Goddammit Boomer. Butch watches the kid's silhouette spring into an upwards position in the dark. He closes his eyes again.

Instead of snapping – or better yet, ignoring him – Butch sighs heavily, "What do you want."

There's shuffling from the end of the bed. It dips a little. Boomer's sitting by his feet, then. Double dammit. "It's...crazy being back here," The blond whispers. He can make out the boy's silhouette in the stripes of streetlight. Orange doesn't exactly look good on him, but it's not bad, either. Still, he looks a lot more daunting in the dark. The illusion is broken when Boomer curls his knees to his chest. Nope; still an annoying pussy.

Still, Boomer has a point. "Tell me about it." Butch runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't sit up. "Any reason you're trying to have a heart-to-heart with me right now?"

Boomer shrugs, "Well, Brick would probably slap me and tell me to grow a pair."

He raises an eyebrow, "Annnnnd I wouldn't do the same thing?"

His younger brother shrugs, "You haven't yet." True. He waves a lazy hand, a motion for Boomer to continue. The boy fiddles with his shorts for a moment, "Do you think people will recognize us?"

Butch blinks slowly at the ceiling. Then he yawns, "Dunno. Maybe, maybe not. These people are fuckin' weird, lil' bro." There's an agreeing hum. Then more fidgeting. Butch rolls his eyes, "What's eating at you? Who cares if they know us?"

Boomer shrugs this time, turning to stare out the window, "I just – we're here for a fresh start, yeah? How are we going to do that if people looks at us and go ' _oh look, it's the kids who tried to kill us a shit ton?_ '"

Butch wipes a hand down his face, "We didn't try to kill _them_ , we tried to kill the girls." Girls that they aren't allowed to go near, per Brick's strict orders. "And," Butch adds, "We left on good terms. There's no reason for Townsville to suddenly grow a hate-boner; they would've done it already if it was a problem."

The blond sighs, leaning back against Butch's legs. He's half tempted to kick the idiot to the floor and call it a night. "That's still enough to get us wanted, y'know? Like, what if we show up at school and then the girls are there and then it's this whole huge deal and we get in trouble so then -"

"Shut up, will you?" Sitting up, Butch jerks another hand through his hair. It's like Boomer just ignored half of what he said. Fuck, he needs a smoke. "That ain't gonna happen." Butch mutters the second part under his breath, "You'd think we've all grown up a little by now." Though it sounds dubious, even to his own ears.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed, kicking Boomer in the process. Standing, he stretches his arms above his bed. Then he leans over and takes the keycard from Brick's nightstand. At Boomer's cocked head (and presumably bemused expression,) Butch explains, "I'm going for a smoke. Don't take my bed." He grabs his cigarettes and lighter on the way to the door.

He knows for a fact Boomer is going to take his bed. Not that he really cares at this point. Boomer can place his pretty little head down where the jizz stain is and wake up with crusty hair in the morning, Butch doesn't care. He'll just crash on the floor. It'll be fine.

When he shuts the room door behind him, he shoves the keycard into his waistband. It probably would've been better to put his jeans back on before he left the room. Oh well. He's got a nice ass, it'll be fine. Black boxer shorts can't be _that_ offensive. Boomer's cotton _briefs_ on the other hand...well.

Butch rolls his eyes before strolling down the hall to the end window. It's big enough that he can sit on the windowsill. He props it open whilst he shakes his cigarette pack. He shoves one of the fags into his mouth, lighting it quickly. Butch leans against the windowsill, smoking quietly.

It's not often that it's this quiet between the three brothers. Fuck, it's not often that it's this quiet. Back in Havana, shit was loud – tourists, parties, etc. No time to really just breathe. He left a lot of friends behind, though. Well – alleged friends. Butch was never particularly close to any of them, and they seemed to like him around because he managed to scare off any immediate threats.

There had been Rosa, though. She'd been...nice. Ish. Kinda clingy, though, and sort of annoying most of the time. (She wasn't Buttercup.) Frowning, he takes another smoke. The ash trickles out of the window, caught in the cross breeze. Butch watches it float down into the street below.

He strokes his thumb over the keycard. The laminated card gleams glossily. It's crusted around the edge, worn out and crinkled a little. It's been a while since he came to this trash heap hotel. Everything's different, but in a sense still the same. So maybe he's having some trouble readjusting. (Especially without a routine to go by anymore.) Maybe he feels a little apart from everything, so what? That's not – there's no problem with that, right? That's totally normal. (Man, Butch wishes he had somebody to talk to right now. Like Boomer said – Brick definitely won't want to listen, and... well, Boomer isn't that great either.) It's fine, really. Something old, something new, right? Yeah, and he'll get through this weird funk. He'll be totally chill come tomorrow morning. It's just been a while.

Yeah. Just a while.

Seven damn years.

That's why Boomer's being a stupid worrywart. Nobody remembers anybody after seven years. Nobody. It's like how you see a face in the street. You're not gonna remember that random dude by the time you go the sleep, right? It'll be exactly the same for the RowdyRuffs. Sure, they (tried to) smack around the PowerPuffs every now and again, but the news died down when they made a 'truce'. A half-assed truce made by seven year olds, sure, but a truce nonetheless. And those three years before they left Townsville had been – they'd been... _good_.

(What Butch avoids thinking about is him, his brothers, and the girls crowding around a table at the In-N-Out joint, laughing about whatever it is seven year olds found funny. Seven year olds, to eight year olds, nine. Ten. By ten years old, Butch remembers a lot of awkward staring contests with the girls' Professor whenever the boys were over for dinner and getting whacked in the back of the head by Brick or Buttercup. Sometimes both. Good times. He tries to avoid thinking about those times. Brick said they weren't meant to try and attract attention, anyways.) He wonders what the girls are up to nowadays.

Do they think of them?

Do they stare at old newspaper clippings and grin dumbly? Or maybe just look at something and be thrown back into a memory? (Last day of school in third grade – crushed soda cans and wads of apple-cherry bubblegum stuck under a park bench. Lime and lemon popsicles – green eyes mirroring the beachside and choppy black hair getting whipped around in the wind.) Maybe the girls don't think of them anymore. Maybe the boys are nothing more than a repressed memory now, their absence leaving little reason to bother remembering.

Butch remembers.

He tried to forget it all, y'know. Mojo shipped them off to Havana – something about trying for a fresh start, trying to actually put them through school this time. Time to act like kids, not worry with the distraction of their 'rivals' to keep them from their education. All Butch got out of Havana had been a lot of exposure to strip clubs and how to speak Spanish. So. Fat lotta good that did.

Frowning, he takes the last hit from his cigarette before crushing the butt into the windowsill. He damn near jumps out of his skin when a hand lands on his shoulder. Except he doesn't, because Butch has gotten good at hiding reactions like that. "The fuck're you doin' awake right now?" Brick. Tired, slurring, grumpy and squinting in the bright streetlights.

Butch shrugs, raising his lighter, "Taking a smoke."

Brick drags a hand through his hair. It's silky from his shower, though tousled from sleep. His cap is absent. Despite the haze of sleep, his older brother looks up at him with keen eyes, "Come back to the room. I don't want to go on a hunt for you in the morning."

Rolling his eyes, Butch pushes himself from the window, "Alright, Red, I'm comin'." This is as close to caring as Brick will ever get, he thinks. He's got too much of a stick up his ass to be any kinder.

Over his shoulder, Brick gripes, "Don't call me that."

Butch shrugs as they creep back down the hall to their room, "Sure thing, Red." Brick doesn't deign him with a response. Understandable, he supposes.

Brick moves aside to let him press the keycard to the slot, before he moves to open the door. Just as Butch expected, the youngest brother has stolen his bed. Curled up in the rumpled comforter, haloed in the streetlights streaking through the blinds. Butch scratches his cheek, "Don't s'pose there are any spare blankets in the cupboard?"

"Towels, duvet covers," Brick informs. Great. Humming, Butch starts towards the loveseat. A doubtful scoff comes from his brother, "Are you really trying to sleep on that thing?"

He shrugs again, "There's a draft on the floor." An answering shift of comforters, a weak groan of Brick getting back onto his bed.

"If you say so." That's that.

Butch drags a hand through his hair, letting his legs bend over the arm of the loveseat. Stupid thing. It's faux leather, it squeaks every time he breathes and his head lolls awkwardly over the other armrest. Now, if Boomer was having trouble getting comfortable, Butch has no chance. Butch is considerably taller and bigger than Boomer (in every way, if you catch his drift.) He's too big for this glorified armchair.

Still, his eyes start to get heavy. This time, there's no worried little brother interrupting his sleep. Soon, he starts to hear Brick's deep breaths again (over Boomer's snoring.) Butch lets his eyes close.

* * *

When he wakes up, it's to _somebody's_ phone ringing. Ringing – as in a phone call. Butch doesn't immediately recognize it, but he knows it's not his phone. His ring tone is actual music, not that damn factory setting. Huffing, he rolls onto his side. The loveseat is cold and hard under him – except it's not the loveseat, but a cold, wooden floor. _God. Fucking. Dammit._

A loud groan fills the air, and grumbling between his brothers. While they bicker, Butch gropes around under the loveseat for the jizz-pillow. He listens a second longer. They still haven't answered the phone. And by now, he's realized that it's Brick's. He knows Boomer's ring tone (he changed it to some shitty sitcom soundtrack, because of how much the blond hates it.) Once getting a hold of the jizz-pillow, he throws it towards Brick's corner of the room. "Answer your damn phone." He talks more to the floorboards than his brother though, and it doesn't sound all that audible in the first place.

Boomer snickers loudly, "Ha – you get the jizz-pillow!" The ringing finally stops. Butch's head feels less like it's going to explode now. Unfortunately, there's no chance that he's getting back to sleep. Brick grabs the keycard and exits the room, mumbling grouchily into the phone.

Butch meets Boomer's eyes. The blond is already half way across the room, creeping closer and closer to the bathroom. Crablike, skittering sideways; if only he had the pincers. "Don't you fucking dare, Bu -"

Butch is on his feet almost immediately, wrestling Boomer away from the bathroom door. The blond scrabbles against him (like a cat with its tail stepped on) "Hey no fair! I was getting there first!"

Butch rolls his eyes, though still heavy with weariness, "Can it, curly fries, that hot water's _mine_." He chucks Boomer across the room before locking the bathroom door behind him.

There's loud pounding; fists battering the door as complaints trickle through. Butch rolls his eyes, opening the towel cabinet. He grabs one of the towels – not as fluffy or as white as he'd like, but they looked clean. Then he climbs into the shower, closing the glass door. (No, he doesn't yelp when cold water hits him.)

After the water's warmed up, things go a lot better from there. The complimentary shampoos and shower gels; they all smell nice, they all do their jobs, he may or may not take the neat _infused with citrus wood_ semi-pricey looking shower gel and shove it into his backpack once he reenters the bedroom. Boomer gives him an unimpressed look, "Can't you buy your own shower gel?" Then, "Don't you _have_ your own shower gel?"

Butch nods, waving him off, "Yeah, but the stuff from the hotels is always better." That's why Butch also helped himself to the crappy mini-fridge in the other corner of the room. The champagne looks mediocre at best, but booze is booze. Free shit is the best shit. No argument about it.

Boomer grins, "The alcohol I can understand."

Butch throws a smirk at him, "Hey, as long as you don't tell Red about the shower gel, I won't tell him about the fashion magazines." His brother turns pink, but doesn't deny it. He only asks, "How did you know about that?"

Butch deadpans: "Because you have two older brothers that don't know fashion trends whatsoever, yet you are somehow up to date with the newest whatever that comes along?"

Flustered, Boomer chuckles, "Guess you got a point there." But then he tries to look menacing, eyes narrowed sternly, "You better not tell Brick."

Butch shrugs, "Whatever." Just to rile him up more, he grins, "You look like an angry poodle when you do that." As threatening as a limp noodle. Boomer begins to bluster, but is interrupted.

Brick reenters the room. There's a metaphorical storm cloud over his head, but he also looks...lightened. "Good news," The redhead drawls, "Mojo called." Butch furrows his eyebrows. _What._ How is Mojo calling anything but awful? "Bad news," Brick sighs, " _Mojo called_." Ah.

"So...?" Butch trails off, waiting for the older boy to fill in.

"The place he had renovated for us is ready for us to move into now."

Boomer whoops loudly, bouncing off of Brick's bed, "Hell yeah! I can actually have my own space _away_ from you jerks." Neither Brick or Butch pay any attention to the little victory-shimmying Boomer dances around the room. It's an atrocity that does not need to be acknowledged. Not even by god.

Butch flops onto the loveseat, stretching, "What's the bad part?"

"I woke up to a monkey man shrieking in my face about how our 'mighty creator' has once again saved our asses." Brick scrubs his face with his hands, dragging his features downward when he pulls away. Butch nods, mouthing a sympathetic 'ouch' to the cause. Now that he thinks about it, that's not very sympathetic.

Brick sighs heavily, moving to grab some spare clothes from his suitcase. He disappears into the bathroom. Boomer groans again, "Dammit, I was just about to go in there."

Butch challenges him with a look, "You barely moved from the bed." He throws the jizz-pillow at the blond for good measure. Boomer's accusing glower hits the back of his head, to little avail.

They don't stay for breakfast, no matter how much Boomer whines and Butch throws Brick pleading looks. Brick, hair tied up in those weird towel-hats and clenching a fluffy slipper, had put his foot down: "We're going to the new place. Mojo's sent a taxi, it'll be here soon." And Butch decided that he didn't want to know how Mojo knew where the fuck they are, so he dropped the topic all together.

Now they're piled into an unassuming mazda in Monday morning traffic. Thank god there's still a week of vacation left before school starts up again. Butch doesn't know what he'd do if it turned out they'd have to go to school after a nine-hour flight, jetlag, and then a night sleeping on the floor. "Man, what I would do for coffee."

Boomer snorts at him, rolling his eyes, "Murder? I think you've already done that, actually." The blond looks out the window, lost in thought. For a moment, he looks wistful (a very complex emotion for somebody who matches the dead-brained perkiness of _SPongebob Fucking Squarepants_ -) a look that induces the urge to throw him out the window. If anybody's meant to be wistful, it's Butch. He's the only motherfucker that seems to remember half the goddamn town. What is it about the coffee house they just passed that's so dear to him?

Butch furrows his eyebrows. "I'm _pretty sure_ I haven't murdered for coffee."

Brick, from the front, scoffs, " _Pretty sure_ isn't the most reassuring." Shrugging, Butch glances at the driver. He's a man with a forgettable face, maybe some kind of lacky that Mojo has on hand (if he even has lackies/minions. Butch is certain he doesn't, and that this man was probably some scrub off the street that got bribed finely.)

Still, Butch is compelled to ask, "Hey, you mind if I light up in here?"

The man glances at him in the rear-view mirror before shaking his head. Nodding, Butch rolls down the window. Cigarette lit; he leans closer to the window. The breeze messes up his hair, but it's a good kind of messy. If that makes sense. Sure, it's not the 'just had sex' kind of mess, but the windswept look is always a good one. Though it is more of Boomer's style. Again, it's not the sexiest, but it's good enough.

At least it's not Brick's damn shoulder-length hippie hair.

His chuckle escapes with a plume of smoke. It's quickly whisked away in the wind. "So, what's this new place the monkey's got set up for us, anyways?" He asks. Brick grunts tonelessly, fiddling with his phone. Judging from the twitch in his jaw and the knitted eyebrows, Butch has two guesses who he's texting: Mojo himself or Wendy, the woman that acts sort of like their caretaker/agent. Which is sort of weird to think about. Butch is glad they never fucking see her; she's more of an over-the-phone kind of gal. Thank fuck. (She's shrewdly intimidating. Maybe that's what having a mother feels like. It only makes him shudder.)

Boomer perks up at the change in topic. He nods excitedly, "Yeah! I hope it's got soundproof rooms." The second part is paired with a blue-eyed sideways glance in Butch's direction. That little bitch.

Who, in turn, raises a daring eyebrow, "Oh yeah? So we don't have to listen to your crap guitar?" It gets the reaction he wanted. Boomer's eyes widen, indignant; his face flushes red. Out of anger or embarrassment at being singled out, he's not sure.

"Hey! That's not true, I'm better at guitar than you are!" Both younger siblings look expectantly at Brick.

"Red," Butch starts, "I'm better at guitar."

Boomer huffs, " _Guitar Hero_ , maybe."

Brick hums; long, deliberate, almost teasing with how long it takes for him to come up with an answer. "Butch does play a mean bass..." He drawls.

He feels a grin split his face. "I always knew I was your favorite brother," He gasps, proudly sneering in Boomer's direction. The blond deflates into the seat, butthurt.

Sourly, he defends, "Brick just doesn't want to hurt your feelings, that's all."

At that, Butch frowns in confusion, "...So he hurt yours instead?"

The blond squawks, "He didn't hurt my feelings!" Almost petulantly, he tacks on, "I don't even _have_ feelings."

"Uh huh, sure." Butch leans into his personal space, shoving him against the car door, "That's why you cried during Titanic." A grueling two hours. Ugggh. More yelling ensues, and Butch catches sight of the driver looking ready to slam his head into the steering wheel. Good. Somebody else needs to understand how much Butch is suffering here.

Eventually Boomer simmers, pouting with his arms crossed. He looks like he's hugging himself. Pathetic little brat. Butch crushes his cigarette butt on the side of the car before letting the litter slip from his hand. Brick catches his eye in the side-mirror, but says nothing.

The car ride is uneventful after that. Butch makes it through two more cigarettes before they come to a stop. It's in the nicer side of Townsville. Near all the Beverly Hills levels of _pricey_ living. Except if you downgraded Beverly Hills to a moderate livingstyle without all the flashy superstars and their dolled-up pets that look ready to chew their expensive collars and run feral. So, like if Beverly Hills got rebooted for the more affordable version. Still – it's _nice_ for Townsville. And Townsville is nothing more than a crappy waterhole stuck between the coast and the desert.

The block is mostly apartment buildings. Now _this_ is what Butch remembers as a kid. The big glossy windows – damn near floor to ceiling from the looks of it – and the fresh coats of paint on the walls. The skies are blue this morning, with the sun shining heavily into the glass.

Boomer whistles lowly, dragging his luggage from the boot, "Shit, are we living there?" He glances at Brick for effect, "Because I'm totally cool with living here." Butch nods, shouldering his gym bag, suitcase in the other hand.

Brick glances down at his phone, before talking to the taxi driver, "Twenty-eight, North Boulevard, right?" The man nods. Brick then also nods, fully stepping away from the car. It drives away without a hitch, disappearing around the corner. (It's hard to decide if the driver's aloofness is better than the chirpiness of their driver from last night.)

Butch cranes his neck back up to the building, "So...keys? Or...?" Brick holds up his hand, where a note hangs from his pinched fingers. On the back, in practiced writing, is _this explains everything to the lobbyist._ So that's that covered, then.

The trio step up towards the door, where a lady pulls it open for them. Oh. Okay. Butch glances at her nametag. "Thanks...Debby."

Nodding, Debby pulls away once they've all stepped in, "Hello! I've been told to be expecting you three." Her uncanny resemblance of the hotel receptionist has him gritting his teeth. Red lipstick, wide eyes, weariness in the edge of her grin – unrelenting as it is.

Butch runs a hand through his hair, flashing a smile, "Have you now?" It's moderately polite. Also a quiet warning.

Brick clears his throat, handing over the note, "I've been told to give this to you." Debby nods, delicately taking it and briefly reading through.

She nods again, smiling brightly, "Yes, yes, Ms Wendy explained something like this on the phone." Butch can't help but note that her voice wavered slightly upon the mention of Wendy. He can't blame her. Wendy is a piece of work. Boomer smoothly takes the wheel, talking back and forth with minimal input from Brick. Butch lets himself look around the lobby.

White walls, accented colors, nice carpet. An abstract painting is hung above an artfully clustered sitting area. A doorway next to the stairwell that probably leads to the communal laundry room. Then his eyes land on the lift. No _out of order_ sign, nothing alluding to the idea that it's broken. Holy shit. Are they in an apartment building with – dare he say – a _functioning_ elevator? "Fuck yeah," He murmurs to himself. He's totally cool with living here.

Suddenly there's a hand on his elbow dragging him towards it, "Quit drooling, let's get moving." Oh fuck no. He was just happy to have bragging rights – how many apartment buildings have a functioning elevator anymore? It's practically trademark to have that same-old _out of order_ sign! – he didn't want to actually get in it!

Butch nods dumbly, "Uh sure. Whatever you say, Red." He digs his heels into the floor. Brick huffs, shoving him into the elevator when it hisses open.

"I hope you boys settle in okay!" Debby calls.

Butch winks at her, "Thanks, muñeca (doll)." The lady stutters a little, her face turning pink. She smiles sweetly, waving as the elevator doors close.

Then Boomer snorts unattractively, "Did you really just whip out the Spanish like some party trick to impress some woman you have no interest in?" Butch catches Boomer reflection in the doors. He looks unimpressed.

Butch smirks, leering jokingly, "What can I say? She had a some beunas tetas (nice tits)."

Boomer raises an eyebrow, "That's not your type."

Got him there, goddamn. With no refute, he glances at Brick over Boomer's head, "Do you know which floor we're on?" Because he remembers Brick jabbing a button, but he doesn't know if it was the right one. Brick has a habit of just pressing shit and acting like he has some semblance of a clue as to what the fuck he's doing. A bravado of excellence, if you will.

This time, Brick nods, "Fifth floor. Top." Ohh, that sounds nice. Fuck yeah. Butch nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. Trying to ignore the creaking of the elevator. He must not be doing a good job of keeping still, now that nobody's talking.

Boomer shoots him repeated looks before finally groaning allowed, "Butch, the elevator isn't gonna get stuck, okay? Or _fall_ , or _blow up_ , okay? We're good. The elevator's fine."

Before he can keep it in, he hisses, " _Boomer don't you fucking jinx it, I swear to god -_ "

"I'm not jinxing it!"

"You just did!"

"Enough," Brick says coolly. Both boys snap their mouths shut. At that moment, the elevator came to a stop, the doors hissing open. Butch all but shoulders Boomer out of the way, carting out his suitcase and gym bag. He looks along the hall: that same fluffy carpet, the white walls with accented colors. The framed pictures are all geometrically designed this time, bright shades of color that makes him frown, trying to figure out just what the fuck the picture is trying to be.

Brick leads them down to the end door, jamming the key into the lock and twisting. The door pops open. For a second, they tall tense, before awkwardly creeping into the apartment. One word: huge.

They step into what appears to be the living-room area; spacious, the layout accommodating the fact that more than one person would be living here. An L-shaped couch in the center of the room, flatscreen television mounted on the opposite wall (couch facing away from the entrance,) with some sort of rounded coffee table. The windows let in so much light, and there's a bookcase along the back wall with two beanbags, plus a game console hooked up on the unit below the television.

Butch picks his jaw up from the floor. This place is great, and they've only just seen the living-room. He wanders into the kitchenette – moderately sized, nothing too big, but it's damn near open-plan. The counters round off in a sort of square shape, neatly separated from the lounge by a half-wall. Fitted up against the half-wall is...boxes. A bunch of boxes. Huh. Labeled neatly, in that too-neat, professional cursive writing. Wendy's handwriting.

An envelope waits innocently on top of the boxes. Butch leaves his luggage by the couch, wandering back into the kitchen. He hears Boomer enthuse about how big the television is, already gushing about the sound system. Whether it's surround-sound, if the walls are soundproof, blah blah blah. He has a feeling Brick is busy examining all the books on the bookcase to bother appreciating anything else. For now, he looks around in the kitchen. When he opens the cupboards, they are already filled with crockery: plates and bowls of varying size (small to medium, there appears to be nothing in the 'large' category but that's fine by him.) There are a few casserole dishes that Butch isn't really sure what to do with. He kinda wants to smash them.

The drawers, when yanked open, are full of cutlery and silverware. Spoons, forks, knives (though he's more interested in the big meat knife than any of the other ones. It gleams menacingly in the light.) There are a few post-it notes stuck around. All from Wendy. Varying shades of condescending:

'Don't let the milk go bad, boys'

'Don't let Boomer near the microwave, boys'

'Don't try to make grilled cheese in the toaster, boys'

And so on. Butch pointedly crumples up the post-it note on the cutlery ('Don't let Butch play with the knives, boys'.) Stupid Wendy, thinking he doesn't know how to handle some _forks_. God, that woman. Sighing, Butch loses interest in the kitchenette and finally returns to the main communal area. Brick is reading through the envelope left on the boxes. He hums; somewhat appreciative, but it sounds dull.

"Wendy's got all of our stuff in these boxes," He announces. Though, the part Butch cares more about is: "Mojo's paying for the place, so we're fine." Fuck yeah. Free living. Kind of.

"Does that mean we have to pay for food and shit?"

Brick nods, then shrugs, "Well, technically the monkey's paying for that too." He pulls shiny credit cards out of the envelope. Three of them to be exact; customized in blue, red and green. Hell yeah. Butch can get used to this. (Havana was a little more difficult.)

Butch takes the green credit card from Brick, wedging it in his wallet before stretching. "What'd she say about the rooms? First pick, or...?" Because if it's first pick, Butch wants the room with the best air conditioning.

Brick shakes his head, "Apparently the rooms have been picked...'according to our individual tastes'."

Butch wrinkles his nose, "If that's what she's gone by, I better not find a bunch of Playboy magazines in my room." The woman knew nothing when it came to decorating a teenage boy's bedroom. Specifically _his_ bedroom.

Brick shrugs, though he fails to smother the amused look on his face. Sighing, Butch wanders down the hall that holds the doors to their rooms. The one closest is the bathroom, as seen by how it's still ajar and he can see inside. Also that Boomer's humming in there pretty loudly. Butch stalks away from the bathroom, peeking into each room before coming to his. He knows it's his, because there's a manila package sitting on the bed with his name in big, messy, scrawled letters that are heart-achingly familiar.

It's not Mojo's handwriting.

It's not Wendy's handwriting.

It's _Buttercup's_.

Quietly, he stumbles into the room. The air is suddenly thicker – heavier as he takes steps closer towards the bed. He takes notice of the white sheets; almost nothing in this room resembles him at all. Untouched; ready for him to put his mark on, his own twist to make it feel like home. The only reason he knows this room is his is because of this damn package. It's not a _box_ , really, but more like those really big thick envelopes that you just _know_ is going to be full of possible crap (except Buttercup's never wasted her time with stupid crap, just the stuff she thinks is important. Fuck.) Why can't he think straight?

Oh. right. Maybe because his kinda sorta best friend from seven years ago suddenly has a package for him? They haven't talked. In seven years. Butch wonders idly when this was sent, since when he gets a closer look at the address, it's of his old one when the boys still lived in Mojo's weird second-base warehouse. So a while ago – that's when this was sent. Why was he only now getting it?

Something hot burns in his gut. Why is he only now just getting this? Butch picks up the package; weighty. He sighs, moving to rest it on the nightstand before glancing behind him. The door is still wide open, so he kicks it shut. Avoiding the package, Butch takes a look at his bedroom. One window takes up nearly the entire far wall, but there are blinds (thank god; he didn't really feel like having somebody able to watch him jerk off at night.) There's a closet up against the back wall, and there's a desk that he just knows is going to have so much clutter by the end of this evening.

Scratching his cheek, Butch cranes his neck to look around some more. Light switch by the door, plug-socket just between the desk and the nightstand, in reach of charging a phone. Which he will be doing. All is good. All is okay with the world. Except for the oversized envelope looming on the nightstand.

Butch quickly leaves his room, heading for the pile of boxes sitting in the living-room. "Found my room, dunno 'bout you guys." Brick hums, already starting to divide his own boxes from the rest.

Butch starts following his lead, looking around. "Where's Boomer?"

Brick sighs, "Something about the cafe across the street." Right. Coffee sounds nice. It's only – he glances at the clock above the fridge – ten in the morning. Jesus.

He mutters under his breath, "God, I could still be asleep right now."

Brick snorts, stepping back to retie his hair before shoving his cap back on, "Tell me about it."

Butch struggles to read Wendy's writing; that's why he just stares at the labels that are the shortest and stacks them. He ends up with roughly the same number of boxes as Brick, it not a few less. Then again, Butch did manage to pack a lot more in his gym bag than Boomer could in his backpack. Huffing, Butch crouches and takes three boxes up with him. "Lift with your legs," Brick chides lightly before wandering into the kitchenette.

Butch scoffs, strolling towards his room, "Yes mom."

Two more trips and a pause to swipe the coffee Boomer brought back from the cafe later, Butch narrows his eyes at the boxes in the middle of his room. Ugh. He'll...he'll unpack them later. Leaving his room, Butch returns to the couch. Boomer is there, rummaging through the left-over boxes that are now...taking up more space than they had been originally. "Desordenado (messy)," He tuts, just to piss off Boomer a little more, making his way through the maze of boxes. He makes out the shape of Boomer's guitar disregarded on the floor.

Butch takes the opportunity to pick up the guitar and hop over the back of the couch. Boomer squawks, dropping whatever he'd been holding, "Hey!" Butch sticks his tongue out, shifting around to get comfortable in the corner of the couch. Then he starts plucking, wincing when the chords come out wrong, "Aw, dude, when was the last time you tuned this thing?" No response. Great. Boomer's probably sulking.

It busies him for the next ten minutes or so; trying to tune to guitar by ear alone. It sounds pretty decent when he's done. Decent enough that he starts strumming Simple Plan, so that's something. He hears no complaints. Brick definitely doesn't complain (the redhead can deny it all he wants, but Butch can see him nodding his head along in the kitchen. Whatever he's doing in there.)

Finally, Boomer speaks up, "Want to play some actual music?" And it's not in an insulting way, if the way he brandishes the CD case is anything to go by. Their old roadtrip mixtapes. Jesus Christ.

Butch rests the guitar on the couch, reaching for his coffee on the table. It's probably cold by now. "Go ham." Boomer's been rearing to try out the new sound system since they arrived.

Butch finds himself roaming the kitchen. "There any actual food in here, or...?" Brick nods, sitting at the little table tucked up by the window. Ah; that's what he's doing. Drinking his morning coffee with a book by the window. How... _domestic_. Butch scrunches his nose at the sight, turning to the fridge. "I have tiny tequila bottles I need to chill, by the way."

Brick waves with his hand vaguely, "There's probably a shelf in there or something." Neat. Nodding, Butch saunters to his gym bag and drags it into the kitchen, resting it by his feet whilst he digs around for the bottles and gently lining them up in the fridge.

"And champagne," He adds, wedging the bottle on one of the shelves on the inside of the fridge door.

At that, Brick asks, "Where'd you get that?"

Exiting the kitchen, he shrugs, "Was in the cooler at the hotel. It ain't fancy." There's nothing to do.

"Aha!" Boomer chirps from the stereo, "Oh – wait, nope. Never mind."

Butch rolls his eyes, strolling down the hall with his gym bag on his shoulder. He turns into the bathroom, dropping his bag on the toilet seat.

His toothbrush is dropped lazily into the cup-holder, toothpaste left on the sink because he couldn't be bothered to put it in the cabinet behind the mirror. He leaves the nice shower gel he stole on one of the shelves in the shower box. Then he leaves the bathroom with his bag, staring at the wall. There is nothing else to do. Ugh.

Back in the living-room, a paper bag from the cafe waits innocently on the coffee table. Boomer will probably hate him if Butch ate anything from the bag. Oh well. Butch has been hated for less.

His thievery results in an indignant gasp from Boomer and a blond boy on his heels as he books it for his bedroom, a buttery croissant in his hand. He slams the door shut behind him, ignoring Boomer cursing him from behind the wood. The lock is convenient. Stepping away from the door, Butch shoves the croissant in his mouth and chews around it. He may or may not choke a little.

The boxes stare at him menacingly. Goddammit.

* * *

UNPACKED! Now there is even less for Butch to do. He's sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, staring proudly at his walls. Tacked up are a mixture of things; posters of bands, sport stars, some _fine_ -looking women. Mainly band posters, though. Album covers, that kind of stuff. Of course, there are a few photos in the mix. Photos that are old and creased around the corners, faded with how long he's held onto them (a lot of them feature a girl with green eyes; bright like lime and lemon popsicles. Not that Butch will ever admit to that.)

His desk, as predicted, is now heavy with loose papers and other discarded sheets that he's...honestly not sure what they're for. They just accumulate without any sense or reason. But they're there now. On his desk. Unlikely to move for a while. Among the papers are CD cases, burned discs, a couple comic books and at least one Playboy magazine. Damn Wendy.

His laptop is resting on the center of his desk, plugged in and charging, along with his phone. Clothes are hazardously thrown into his closet, though a jacket made it onto the floor, along with a pair of headphones and the keychain he's been looking for all week.

But he's unpacked now. Bored. With nothing to do. Nothing to really say to his brothers, since they're both preoccupied, and it's not like there's really any form of entertainment in Townsville. Well – there's the mall, he supposes. Thriftshops, too. Get a shirt or something for maybe a dollar, if that. Just as he's ready to turn into his pillow and scream, his door creaks open.

"I'm getting some bedsheets I actually like, you coming?" Leave it to Brick to save him from boredom.

"Sure," Butch says, sitting up, "Yeah, I'll come. Give me a sec." Brick leaves his room, though there's a distasteful glance at the mess he's already made. Butch tugs his sneakers back on, lacing them loosely before shucking on his jacket. Wallet, phone, keychain without the keys...check. All's good.

Boomer looks ready to go as well. "Maybe we can order pizza or something when we get back." Brick looks ready to smack him 'round the head and say 'we've got food already' but then he pauses.

"If it's meatlovers, then sure." Fuck yeah, pizza for dinner. Or lunch. What time is it again?

The trip out of the building is short. Another dreadful trip in the elevator and more nattering from Boomer, but nothing majorly eventful. The streets are livelier when they step out, now. People with their own lives, their own schedules and goals. Butch shoulders his way through most of them, since none of them even seem to care that they're _walking here_. Every person he bumps into gives him a flustered look before continuing about their day. Butch rolls his eyes. Brick doesn't seem that happy either. Maybe even regretting that he suggested to leave their sanctuary.

At least the sun is warm. Shining down, huge plains of it through the gaps between the taller buildings. Boomer jostles against him in an attempt to sidestep around another person bustling past. For a second, Butch thinks that he recognizes the woman's face, but she's too quick for him to get a proper look.

It goes like this for a while as they roam Townsville. A few times, Butch finds himself staring into shop windows – especially the bars and nightclubs. Obviously, most of them are closed at this time, but it's nice to get himself acquainted with the important things. When they get to the mall, Butch feels nostalgia churn in his gut. Ugh, the mall. The mall cop resides by the entrance, unassuming and polite as he greets a few people.

Townsville's mall hasn't changed much since they left. Still three floors; escalators and linoleum floors. Bleach still underlines the choking scents of the perfume and bodywork shops, mingled strangely with the aromas from the food court. It's nauseating. Butch feels nauseous. Brick looks at him, "You better not throw up."

Maybe it was on his face, or in the way he visibly shuddered upon entry, but Butch clenches his jaw and shakes his head, "Me? Sick? No way. Definitely not." He moves to say more, but as they start walking further into the building, Butch gags. He's always had a sensitive sense of smell. It's always been something Butch has wanted to ask his brothers – whether they also have a keyed sense of some kind, if there's something more they have in common. But that'd be a sign of weakness. Of not being able to stand alone. It always stops him from asking anything.

He resorts to breathing through is mouth. It doesn't help as much as he hoped. Boomer throws him a somewhat pitying look. The pity is gone when he announces, "I'm going to music department upstairs, later." Great. Boomer is abandoning him with their less understanding brother. Ugh.

"How could you do this to me?" Butch hisses, catching the sleeve of the blond's jacket.

The blond shakes him off, "Hey, you're welcome to do what you want, man." So maybe he hadn't hidden his desperation as well as he thought he had.

Huffing, Butch looks around. Brick's gravitating towards one of the tech department. In the window, there are different models of second-hand phones lined up, iPads and whatever else. Yeah. Butch doesn't feel like staring at computer mice for twenty minutes and listening to the clerk go on about which model is better.

He starts towards the old GameStop on the second floor. Away from this gross amalgamation of smells. Butch bites back frustration at the annoying people that get in his way – walking too slow, not letting him walk past because they're in a big clump, that kind of thing. Annoying as fuck. He finally makes it to the escalators, waiting impatiently to get to the second floor. He hears a lot of whispering, especially from the group of girls just to his right. Also irritating, but also flattering. (They're gushing – _muscles, chiseled jaw, nice hair_ – and that's always a nice little boost to his ego. Though he is a little dubious about the hair, because he didn't manage to style it before they left. Which kinda sucks.)

The only pleasing thing about being on the second floor of the mall is that he's further away from the gross smell. Seriously; just _sickening_. Up here, his head feels a little clearer. The department he has in mind is nestled nicely between a movie store and some kind of off-brand hot topic. Sweet. Maybe they'll have something Butch can spice up his closet with. Like his own 'welcome back' present.

Since nobody else seems to be aware that they're back.

Well guess who's back! (back again. Shady's back, tell a friend – except Butch apparently doesn't have any friends. That's sorta sad, really.) And it's not as if his brother's really care whether he's back or not. They're permanently stuck with him every day, he's pretty sure they're willing to sacrifice him to a certain crabby, cross-dressing Satan if it means a few minutes of quiet.

He frowns, stepping into the game store. There's a layer of dust in the air, disturbed as he steps in. There's a pair of kids at the front of the place; gushing over some of the Halo franchise. Butch has never really liked Halo, to be honest. He wanders through the aisles, running his fingers over some of the game cases. There's nothing that immediately stands out – but then, there it is. Rayman _._ Stupid fucking platformer game. Out of the blue, he thinks: Buttercup liked Rayman. But she also liked Bioshock and then GTA V, so there's not really a certain style of game Butch can go off.

With that in mind, Butch grabs State of Decay 2 off the shelf and stalks to the front of the store. The cashier is bored, unabashedly flipping through a porno mag. He doesn't look up until Butch rudely drops the game case on the counter. The kid startles, clearing his throat as he snaps his magazine shut and slides it to the side. "This it?" He asks. Butch nods. It takes too long for the kid to scan the damn thing and take his money. Long enough that Butch starts to stare at the spotty patches of acne the kid has on his forehead and his left cheek.

God, he's so fucking lucky to not suffer that cruel fate. Acne would totally ruin his looks. "That's ten ninety-five, man," The cashier croaks. Butch glowers a little – damn near eleven dollars for a video game? - but forks over the cash, shoving the game into the inside-pocket of his jacket and leaving the store. The two boys staring at Halo jump out of his way, weary.

Good. Maybe they'll finally recognize him.

Then again, they look too young. No older than nine, maybe. They only would've been toddlers when the RowdyRuffs were around. Too young to remember. Dammit. Dammit. (Why does he care so much?)

He needs another smoke. Butch runs a hand through his hair, smiling briefly at a pair of girls that catch his eyes. They smile back, giggling their hellos before trotting off. Perhaps he's just feeling out of place because they're not in a social setting. He's...by himself, which wouldn't be much of an issue normally. They'll be starting school next week, and he'll be able to progress the social ladder like he usually does. He'll be surrounded in people, and everything will fall into place. Like it always does. He's probably just bored – this out of place feeling is just boredom, a mix of jetlag and boredom (and loneliness.) It'll be fine when school starts for the year.

It doesn't make him feel any better.

Hands stuffed into his pockets, Butch moves to check out the movie shop. There might be something cool for him to watch later this evening. Music is playing from one of the speakers in the corner. Butch smiles to himself; he's more familiar with this shop, came in here a lot when he was younger. The walls are still pockmarked and the movies are still displayed without categories like you'd think they'd be.

He nods along quietly to the music quietly streaming through the shop, once again brushing his fingers carefully over the movie cases. Some are old, some are new – mostly in good condition. There are a few CD cases, too, of different singers and bands, plus a magazine stand full of comic books.

By instinct alone, Butch gravitates to the cluster of action-comedy movies sitting on a shelf. They're all stuff he's seen before – Johnny English to Hancock, but he still picks up and looks over Bad Boys II just for the hell of it. Something else catches his eye though – it's not a movie, but a person.

She's perusing the stack of horror movies awfully arranged on a table in the center of the shop. Butch finds his eyes _glued_ to her. Pale, slim, tall; stature swamped by a bomber jacket (an ugly shade of olive-green,) with cuffed sleeves. Denim shorts, big clunky boots and hair sticking out at wild angles from beneath a baseball cap. Butch wants to call her name. He really does, because he can't even see her face, but he _knows_ who it is.

His excuse for turning around and walking out of the shop is exactly this: Brick said no. it's not common for Butch to actually follow orders, but something is conflicting inside him. It's enough to make him feel lightheaded, and before he knows it, his feet have carried him out of the mall all together.

He's stranded himself in the parking lot. Fumbling, he lights a cigarette and sticks it in his mouth. Damn near chokes, but plays it off easily enough. Nobody is giving him a second glance. Thank god.

With a stuttered breath, he exhales smoke and ashes his cigarette. He leans back against the wall, knocking his head a few times for good measure. What to do, what to do... Then again, there's always the option of nothing. She hadn't seen him, doesn't know he's back, doesn't know if he's still alive – doesn't know _anything_ , because that's how Mojo wanted to keep it. No kept connections, nothing. So she doesn't know. Doesn't know a single damn thing.

Brick said no. Butch's head says no, but his gut says _yes, go talk and catch up you dumb fuck_. Butch doesn't know what to do. There's this fierce fight inside him; it's hard to explain, because both sides are struggling between the right thing and the wrong thing, but don't actually know what the right or wrong thing is?

Forcing out a sigh, Butch takes another smoke. His eyes draw skyward. He can see the sun from this side of town; fewer towering buildings and more low-level structures, the sun easily shining over most of it.

He feels like going home now. Preferably to his bedroom, where he can mope and mull over everything. And maybe just sleep off the jetlag. That would be nice. He scuffs his sneakers on the sidewalk, glowering down at his laces. They're ratty, not as white as they used to be. Does that mean anything?

A hand on his shoulder drags him out of his brooding. He looks down to find Brick staring up at him, "I saw you storm out."

Butch shrugs, ashing his cigarette once more before dropping it and crushing it with his foot, "Yeah." He decides that telling Brick would be a bad idea. So he doesn't. The silence is heavy with expectation; Brick waiting for an explanation. Butch doesn't give him one. He stares down at the crushed cigarette butt for a second. Then he bends low, picking it up and strolling towards the trash can and dropping it.

After there's no answer, Brick grabs Butch by his hood and drags him back into the mall. Butch doesn't ask where they're going, lumbering along after. The strong smell is still enough to make him scrunch his nose, but they're not on the first floor for long. Brick tugs him along both sets of escalators, up to the third floor.

At one point, Butch had tensed up when he saw the back of an olive-green bomber jacket, but they swerved around a corner before he could embarrass himself. Fuck.

To nobody's surprise, but slight confusion, Bricks stops in front of the mattress department. Butch raises an eyebrow, "We have beds." Brick rolls his bright eyes, trudging into the store with his signature 'don't talk to me' aura. Without anything better to do, Butch trails the redhead. He pulls out his phone at one point, just to look preoccupied, but the only texts waiting for him are from Rosa – and he _really_ doesn't want to talk to Rosa, so.

They walk past all the cozy, memory-foam, _expensive_ mattresses and further into the back of the store. Fabrics. Design swatches, pamphlets in leaflet holders, showing different bedspread decorations, blah blah blah, something about frilly pillows. Yeugh. Butch scratches his cheek, staring down at the different swatches.

He just wants some fucking bedsheets, man. Brick clears his throat, before nodding his head in a 'follow me' motion. Butch drags his feet.

Ten minutes of bickering with Brick about the two different shades of red that he wants, finally finding his own bedsheets (gray, with little green toxic symbols. So what if it was in the kids section?) they finally leave with their stuff being delivered tomorrow. Butch is ready to sleep off today, yesterday, the day before that and the entire seven years they've been gone now. Ready to sleep for millennia, then upon awakening, go back to sleep.

"What kind of pizza do you want?" Brick asks. It's as close to conversational as the redhead can get. He only ever tries it when there's something _off_. Fuck, is Butch being that obvious?

With a sullen shrug, he shoves his hands in his pockets, "Meatlovers pizza. With mushrooms."

Brick scrunches his nose, "Half mushrooms."

Butch nods, "Okay."

Brick raises an eyebrow at him inquisitively, fiddling with his cap. He wedges the rim between his teeth to untie and retie his hair, before shoving the cap back on backwards. Goddamn hippie and his long hair. And no, Butch isn't jealous of how silky-soft it looks or anything. That'd be stupid. "How much do I need to chip in?"

Brick shakes his head, "I made you pay for the hotel room, it's fine."

Uh...what? Butch narrows his eyes, hesitant, "...Sure. Okay?" He waits for the other shoe to drop.

His older brother shrugs, "You'll be ordering." _There_ it is. No matter how he'd been expecting it, something repulses aggressively in his gut. Fucking Brick. What a dick.

Butch groans, "Really? Make Boomer pay or something."

Brick shakes his head, "Penalty for not paying. You have to order the pizza."

Butch frowns for a moment before sighing, "Whatever, Red."

"Don't call me that."

"Sure thing, Red."

Brick punches Butch's arm. Hard.

* * *

Stepping through the threshold of their apartment brings immediate ease. Whilst still slightly unfamiliar, Butch feels more at home in here than out there. His shoulders slump with relief; he kicks his sneakers off by the door. "Home sweet home, boys," Boomer murmurs, making an immediate B-line for the couch. He sprawls gracelessly. From where his face is buried in the couch cushions, he muffles, "Somebody call the pizza."

Brick immediate glances at Butch. Dammit. Groaning with dismay, he struggles his phone out of his pocket, " _Fine._ "

It's always so uncomfortable talking to the pizza delivery service. You have to rattle the order off the top of your head, and then there's the whole feeling of judgment on the other end, and you can just _hear_ their disgust over the line. The skeptical, "Large meatlovers pizza, half mushroom?"

And then he has to grit out, "Uh-huh, yup."

Cue that weird moment of silence whilst his order is put into the machine, "Your pizza will arrive shortly. Half an hour or your money back."

The unpleasant, baited second where they both just breathe for a second before Butch just grunts, "Thanks," Then hangs up.

He stares down at his phone. The grimace on his face feels immense. Boomer cackles at him from over the couch, " _Man_ , that sounded awkward as _fuck_."

Butch rests his phone on the coffee table, jerking a hand through his hair, "I hate ordering pizza."

Brick hums from the bookshelf, "Isn't it worth it, though?" Y'know, Butch isn't so sure. If giving up pizza meant avoiding that horrible interaction that happens every time, then...he'd probably go through with it. Goodbye pizza: goodbye awful social interaction.

Feeling like his feet are cement, Butch starts shuffling to his room, "We don't have to go anywhere else for tonight, right?" Negative hums confirm his assumption. "Cool." Pajama time. Sweats and some old tank-top, if that. He starts shucking off his jacket once he enters his room.

Buttercup's package still looms on his nightstand. Dammit. He'd forgotten about that. There's a brief staring contest between him and the package. It ends with him losing, looking away and turning his back to it. He unbuckles his belt, takes his jeans off and tugs on a pair of worn gray sweatpants. His shirt comes off over his head, and he hesitates before just going shirtless. Whatever. It's just his brothers, and it's not like he has anything to really be embarrassed about. A few scars, sure, maybe some freckles but that's about it (also abs, but that goes unspoken for. Additionally, not something he has to be embarrassed about. If anything, that's more of a dominance play. Suck it, Boomer. Fucking runt.) Butch smirks at the mirror on the inside of his closet door.

His eyes are drawn back to the package.

Brick said to not actively seek out the girls. To leave them to their business and mind his own. This...the package – if he opens it, he's not _technically_ interacting with the girls whatsoever. Buttercup won't know if he opens it or not. She won't know a damn thing, just like she doesn't even know the boys are back in town. This damn jerkwater town that she's always wanted to escape. The bitter reminder has his gut churning.

He left without wanting to.

She's here against her will.

God, they'd always contradicted each other like that, huh? He liked modern rock; she liked the classics. He loved crunching gobstoppers; she was a sucker for bubblegum. In the winter, she liked stomping on the iced-over lake, he liked watching somebody slip over. They always contradicted each other. He was bad; she was good. Now, he's mellowed to a more chaotic neutral, and he has no idea how she turned out.

The package awaits him; unopened.

Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it – FUCK IT! Butch slams his bedroom door shut, turns the lock and pulls the blinds shut over the window. The most secluded privacy he'll get. Even then, his brothers could just knock the door down any second. Not that it matters right now, really. It's just Butch and the package.

He tears into it; maybe an expression of his pent-up frustration or his eagerness to see _something_ from the girls, he's not sure. The paper tears easily, giving way under his prying fingers. He turns the package upside-down, shaking out the contents. They fall to the floor with a thump. A bundle of papers: letters, pictures, post-cards. All held together with string tied around them.

For a minute, he just stares down at the bundle. He doesn't know what they are. What they say, what they mean, who they're from. But they're for him. He glances back at the manilla package-wrapping in his hand. Crumpled now, from his tight grip. His name is scrawled there, clear as day. In that god-awful, chicken-scratch handwriting. The 'c' the wrong way 'round and that wobbly smiley face next to it. Buttercup always had trouble writing when she was younger. Too busy with more interesting things than reading and writing. Like fighting.

This is from Buttercup. This is _her_ handwriting, he knows, because he's seen it enough times for it to be nobody else's. A sigh heaves from his lungs. He feels like he's just chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes, then tried to swallow the ashes. A shudder runs through him.

All these letters. They're for him. From her.

Almost tentatively, he sits down on the floor. On top of all the papers (he sees now, that they're all yellowed or dusty, some of them creased around the edges. Old. Aged. Unsent until now,) there is a note. It's folded in half, caught under the string that's banding it all together. The most recent paper. The letters in the pile start off the most worn out, but gradually appear more recent towards the bottom of the stack. The oldest letters to the newest.

His throat is taut; raw, like when you've ran for too long and struggling to breathe right. (Or like when you're trying to not cry, but Butch doesn't acknowledge that part. Butch Jojo, the wild card of the RowdyRuffs, does _not_ cry.) He tugs the note out from under the string. There it is again – her scruffy handwriting. Endearing, in a way.

 _hey butch  
long time no see right  
well here's a bunch of crap i've been  
meaning to send you so  
here you go i guess_

 _\- bc_

That's it. No heartfelt 'I miss you and wish you were here!' bullshit, but just. This. 'Well here's a bunch of crap I've been meaning to send you'. God, that's so like her. Impersonal and distant in a way that says she doesn't really grasp the concept of intimacy. A disbelieving laugh falls from his mouth. Butch doesn't even feel it.

It's like he's having an out of body experience. That's the closest equivalent he can think of. He doesn't feel like he's in control of his next movements. He's ever so gently placing the note aside and untying the string keeping all the letters together. When he reaches for the very first letter, it feels fragile in his hands. But so incredibly heavy. The unspoken weight of whatever those words are going to put on him. In her damn ugly-ass fucking scribbles.

The envelope tears easily as he rips the top of it, about to shake out the contents into his hand – "Pizza's here!" Shit.

He blinks rapidly. A rush of air fills his lungs (a startled gasp, one could say, but not Butch.) He waits a minute; two, three. Maybe he can just go back to reading the letters...

"Bro, it's gonna go cold! Get your ass in here!" Dammit.

"No guarantee there'll be any left for yooou!" Boomer coaxes. Double dammit.

Shakily rising to his feet, Butch orientates himself briefly. Right. His bedroom; posters on the walls, desk cluttered, carpet under his feet. Clothes on the floor. Along with a stack of letters, but he ignores that last detail.

Pizza is waiting for him. Delicious, greasy, meaty and mushroomy pizza. Well, half-mushroom. Since Brick doesn't like mushrooms. Pizza; that really nice junk food that Butch could eat any day of the week. Yeah. Y'know, one of his favorite pass-times: eating pizza. Especially this type of pizza. That he should be moving to go chow down on before Boomer eats it all. Any minute now, he'll start moving. Butch can smell it from here, can almost imagine how big it is, the stringy cheese, the grayish mushrooms on it, the beef chunks... A real delicious pizza waiting for him.

But what about the letters?

 _Buttercup's_ letters?

There's that vicious conflict again, churning his gut and knotting his stomach. A deep discomfort settled in his bones; it feels like an injustice, to just leave them on the floor like that. " _Butch_ , seriously! Come get your pizza or I'm gonna eat it all!"

Swallowing thickly, Butch reties the string around the stack of worn papers, gently transferring them into the top drawer of his nightstand. They'll be somewhat safe in there. For now. Until he finds a better place to hide them -

"Fine!" Boomer yells, "I'm eating all your damn pizza and you'll get nothing!"

Butch bursts out of his room, racing down the hall and leaping over the back of the couch. He collides messily with Boomer, who's trying to fit the entire mushroom-covered half of pizza onto his plate. Taking the empty plate from the coffee table, he tears the pizza from Boomer's hands, taking a huge chomp out of it. In an attempt to say 'fuck you lil bro', he chokes on his mouthful. Brick murmurs, "Karma." That appears to be his only response to the situation.

Boomer groans about Butch's elbow digging into his side, but he doesn't care. The pizza's still warm, thank god. Sure, cold pizza's good too, but there's just something slightly better about when it's fresh. "What took you so long, anyway?" The youngest brother finally asks.

Nearly choking again, Butch shrugs it off. He doesn't have an excuse that won't get him slapped or punched. 'Jerking off' is an excuse he uses often but, in this scenario, he has a feeling neither of them would believe him. Or appreciate him bringing it up while they're eating. So he just munches through his pizza in silence. Brick's intense gaze burns holes into the side of his head.

What his brothers don't know won't hurt them.


	2. chapter two

**RATED M** just in case (there's swearing and maybe violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)  
 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.):** 13,025

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. the fic will most likely just be told from butch's POV, but it could switch every now and then - i'm still not sure, so.

/lmao still no beta don't cry when you find any mistakes, this is what you agreed to when you decided to read this. also a tiny bit shorter than the last chapter (shrug) and maybe a POV switch i don't remember.

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** theory; his sneakers will never be clean again /or/ there are times where singing along to Neck Deep is really all you can do

* * *

Butch made it to Friday before seeing one of the girls again. Barely a weekend before school starts. So, understandably, he'd left the safety of his apartment to go buy some celebratory booze. The cheap champagne cooling in the fridge is nice and all, as well as the tiny tequilas, but the thing is...he sorta kinda already drank them all. So. Time for an adventure into the alcohol section of the supermarket.

Boomer, the little shit, decided to tag along. His excuse being, "I need to grab some school stuff." Yeah right. Boomer did his back-to-school run at the start of the summer, before they left. Butch thinks that maybe somebody doesn't want to be left alone with Brick. He smirks at the thought.

So, let's get this all in short: they arrive at the supermarket, trotting along with a shopping cart that for some reason already had four different tubs of ice cream and approximately _no alcohol_ , which was already a bad start. The front-left wheel kept spinning weirdly. Butch was about ready to abandon the cart all together. Boomer insisted on sitting _inside_ the cart, like a damn four year old. The only reason he didn't kick the blond out was because it was Boomer in the cart, or Boomer outside the cart whining – again – like a damn four year old. When they finally started nearing the alcohol section at the back of the store, Boomer demanded they take a detour into the candy isle. Which Butch wasn't opposed to. The alcohol was still in sight at this point.

Then suddenly it wasn't because a certain redheaded girl was standing in his view, merrily checking off a grocery list with her own shopping cart in tow. Pushed by the blue girl. No green one in sight. For that, he's still not sure if he's thankful or not. There was no immediate panic, no accusing " _You_!" or anything like that. The girls barely noticed them. But Boomer made a sound like a dying swan and dropped his hand heavily on one of the shelves.

Which made the shelf fall.

Directly onto Butch's foot.

" _FUCK_!"

Time seemed to freeze for a moment. The other shoppers in the vicinity turned to stare at the spectacle he'd made. Candy came pouring off the shelf; boxes and other containers, packages, the whole lot sliding off and making an even bigger mess. He just stood and stared. Ready to die at this point, in all honesty, for the ground to swallow him up or _something_.

Instead, Boomer started giggling. It was a breathy, hesitant thing at first. Curled up into the corner of the shopping cart, face contorted into some sort of hilarious disbelief. A breathy giggle quickly escalated to blown-out cackling.

 _Is this was Red feels like?_ He thought.

And that leads them to where they are now. Butch's nice black skinny jeans caked around the ankles with weird sugary substances, his sneakers nowhere to be seen in the mess. He wheezes through the sickly sweet aroma. "HOLY SHIT!" Boomer shrieks, leaning further...and further back into the shopping cart.

In a moment of retaliation, he uproots his foot from the mess and _kicks_ the cart. Butch gets the reaction he wanted. It arks backward, upended, and out tumbles Boomer. Choking now, more of that dying swan sound. Butch glances around quickly. People are still staring. He's pretty sure one kid's got his phone out, recording the whole thing.

He feels nothing. In the midst of his public humiliation, there is nothing he can remotely describe as emotion. It's just a blank void, waiting to be filled with something. Butch feels nothing. He's not even _mad_ , for fuck sake. He stares emptily at Boomer, who's once again resumed chortling like a four year old who stole all the crayons. Oh – he only now just noticed the employee glowering in dismay at the carnage. Butch reaches up to scratch his cheek, shuffling away from the ruined containers and sugar-caked boxes. He wonders what was in those packets. Maybe it was some kind of sherbert.

And then the pink one clears her throat, skirting delicately around the mess, "Language, please." Of _course_ that's what she'd say. Boomer hiccups – snorts, blinking back tears as he stares up at...at Blossom. A kind of fear dawns in his eyes, but he keeps laughing. Butch keeps his gaze on him for a second longer. When the blond shows no sign of calming down any time soon, he turns back to Blossom.

She hasn't changed much. A little taller, yeah, hair's a little longer, her figure's a little more curvy than she was at ten (duh.) Still got that damn bow in her hair. Same politely shrewd look on her face; she flicks away sugar from her pleated skirt. All Butch can think is _how the fuck did I used to crush on this girl?_ Especially when she continues talking, mouth blathering. Something about this being a public space, children, bad influences, blah blah blah. The only thing he gathers from all this is: the girls don't recognize them. Awesome.

He wasn't aware his ego needed another blow this week.

Butch tunes her out for the most part, throwing casually pointed looks at Lil' Miss Pigtails. He's not sure he's conveying 'come collect your SJW sister before I eye-beam her' enough. Though the blue one is still short. Most likely the shortest of the three. Even if Buttercup isn't here for Butch to try and judge. She's small; petite, really pulling that _innocent_ look with her big blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Blue doesn't appear to have changed much either.

Finally, blue gets the hint and totters on over. "Bloss," She smiles soothingly, "I think he gets the message." That's when Boomer stops laughing his guts sore. He falls eerily quiet. When Butch looks over, he's redfaced and avoiding to look in blue's direction.

Blossom gives him a once-over, face stern as she stares directly into his eyes. Still expecting some kind of submission. Even though he never gave her submission when they were younger. He won't give it to her now. With ease, he stares unblinkingly into her chalk-pink eyes. They'd probably unnerve a normal person. Butch isn't normal. _He's exactly the same as her._ Blossom finally relents with a sigh, but when she looks between him and Boomer, she arches an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, but do I know you?" _Fuck_. Fuckity fuck fuck.

Butch jerks a hand through his hair. Then shrugs. "No." Then turns on his heel, stalking past Boomer (he catches the blond by his elbow and promptly drags him away,) ignoring the indignant shouts from the girls.

All he wanted was some cheap beer.

Or, like, maybe some whiskey.

Not this. Whatever _this_ is. (It's not Buttercup, that's for sure.) Boomer stumbles to his feet two aisles down the line, but doesn't try to get Butch's grip off his nice jacket. Butch grabs an eight-pack off the shelf and loops around the supermarket to the self-checkout area. The process is over quickly. The machine is none the wiser when he scans his (fake) ID to confirm that he is old enough to have the beer.

" _Butch_!"

Oh fuck. Brick is going to have his goddamn ass. Butch is a dead man. He glances at Boomer. Boomer's also a dead man. He'll drag that little fucker into hell with him.

Eight-pack under one arm, Boomer's arm tightly in his spare hand, they start for the exit. He shares a look with his younger brother. The poor guy looks bug-eyed, panic clear on his face as they all but book it for the exit. Not suspicious at all. Especially when they're running away from the leader of the PowerPuff Girls plus one other girl on the team. "Wait up, we just want to talk!" Blue calls, suddenly in front of them. Goddammit.

Butch rolls his eyes, easily sidestepping her and continuing to speed down the sidewalk. "We don't," He bites out, once again moving around one of the girls as they try to passively intercept his path. Blossom starts walking alongside him, eyebrow arched quizzically, "What are you three doing back in town?" Dammit. Boomer tenses in his grip. Thank god, the kid stays quiet. "What do you mean back in town?" He shoots. Gotta go for the whole 'visiting' thing, that's the excuse Brick flippantly suggested during the wait for the plane.

"We're visiting," He continues. Protectively, he clutches the eight-pack closer to his chest when Blossom narrows her eyes at it. "Heard this place was a nice vacation spot. Quiet place to finish off school, all that." She directly glares at him this time – _both_ of them, "Stop playing dumb, Butch. We know it's you." Double dammit.

Groaning, Boomer scrubs a hand down his face, "Can you just – I dunno, leave us alone?" For fuck sake, Boomer. Butch glowers at him, hissing through his teeth. Butch swears he sees blue's smile drop at his brother's words. Blossom huffs, "Not until you tell us why you're here -"

"Not hurting anyone," Butch sighs. He starts checking off the list on his fingers, releasing Boomer in the process. "No evil schemes, nobody I need to threaten to pay their end of the deal, no law-breaking -" He glances down at his eight-pack. "Well, a little bit of law-breaking, but that's about it." When the redhead remains silent, he shrugs her off, "We're here to finish school. And we're _supposed_ to be avoiding you, so." Both the girls seem disappointed to hear that. Weird. Butch scratches his cheek, "Plus, that truce still stands. I thought we parted on a good note?"

With that, and no further protest from anybody, Butch grabs Boomer's elbow again and starts carting him away. Maybe they can finally fucking get home. Butch wants to down every last can.

"C'mon Bubbles," Blossom relents. The second part is much quieter, but he can still pick it up: "Buttercup's not going to be happy about this." What? Why? What did Butch fucking do? (Other than leave.) Before he can fathom the words, the girls are leaving the ground. Butch could probably go after them. He _would_ go after them if his stomach wasn't trying to perform a celtic knot.

"Fuck," Boomer ejects. Butch nods, staring at the quickly fading pink and blue streaks. "Fuck." (Why won't Buttercup be happy? _Why wont she be happy?_ She's – they're...were...they were best friends. Shouldn't she be happy?) "...Do you think we have to tell Brick?" Butch glances at Boomer, scratching his cheek. He purses his lips. Cocks his head, rocking back and forth on his heels. Finally, he comes to a conclusion. "What Red doesn't know won't hurt him." Boomer seems dubious.

Then again, Boomer still doesn't know about the letters.

So there's that. And it hasn't hurt _him_ yet, so. That too.

For a moment, the boys simply remain standing. Neither move, but everything passes by them. People bustling, paying no attention to anything around them. The conversations are...overwhelming. So many at once; different voices, different tones, different rhythms. Butch feels like his ears are going to start bleeding at any second. But there's nothing else to pay attention to – nothing to divert his attention from the racket around them.

"Butch -"

He glances up in the direction the girls went. Butch remembers the path the girls' house like he remembers the amount of times he's nearly been arrested. So, it's rickety at best but the imagery is there and he could probably make it there before nightfall. Maybe. A very big maybe. The clouds are still that weird quality of stockphoto perfect, fluffy and delicate-looking. Butch wants to fly through one, just to punch a hole through it. He knows that's not how physics works, unfortunately.

"Hey! Earth to bug-brain?"

Butch glances at Boomer. The blond's barely inches from his own face, hands waving like a weird reprise of jazz-hands. Except more vigorous and somewhat threatening. "Why _bug_ -brain?" He huffs, "I'm more attractive than a bug." The blond rolls his eyes, "Because bugs are 'birth, fuck, die'." Butch raises an eyebrow, "...And that's related to me because...?" Boomer huffs, "Why do you think, bug-brain?" Birth. Fuck. Die. Oh. That little shit. Butch shoves him roughly, stalking past, "Fuck you, lil bro."

Boomer skips along merrily, chuckling to himself. Clearly pleased. Like a cat caught the canary. Snotty little shit. Rolling his eyes to himself, Butch sticks his hands in his pockets and drags out a cigarette. He lights it quickly, takes a hit, then promptly blows it in Boomer's face.

There's no more reaction further than a cough (maybe some glaring, etc.) Dammit. He takes a regular smoke this time, strolling along at a leisurely pace.

His eight-pack of beer provides comfort in his clutches. They're warming in his grip, but that's what refrigerators are for. Right? Right. Not for cooling ants in (not pointing any fingers – BRICK. Fucking weirdo. "It's for a study" his ass.) Almost by impulse, Butch hugs the eight-pack closer to his chest.

Weirdly enough, he wants a hug.

* * *

They stall in front of the apartment door. Boomer purses his lips, then whispers, "So...what do we tell him?" Butch glares at him, "Why are you even _whispering_ about it?" Boomer hisses back at him, " _So he doesn't hear us_ -"

The door swings open.

Brick, unimpressed as ever, stares evenly at both of them. He says nothing, slowly backing away from the door. He leaves it open, an open invitation for the pair of them to finally grow up and enter the apartment. Butch saunters in with ease. His bravado has never failed him before. God be damned if it does now. Boomer trips over the threshold. "Smooth." Brick rolls his eyes. Butch hears him pottering around in the kitchen. Kinda weird, considering they already ate today. (Breakfast had been cereal with sour milk. Soy milk. Boomer insists it's soy milk, but it tastes like it went past its sell-by date. Yeugh.)

Boomer, the dumbass, leans in again, and whispers, "Do you think he heard us?" Butch is – he'll...the window seems like a good option right now. Either to _punt_ Boomer through it or jump out of it himself, he's not sure yet. Brick drawls from the kitchen, "What do you think?"

Butch will swear to any god you believe in, Boomer jumped ten feet into the air.

Thankfully, Brick doesn't try to figure out what they're hiding from him. In the next thirty seconds, anyway, so Butch takes his eight-pack to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. _Oh_ , what a bad idea. He...he really needs to do something about those letters. Cramming them under his bed seems like an injustice, but...there's nothing else he can really do. Other than read them. Something tells him that's not happening anytime soon. Also an injustice. A severe insult, really. (She doesn't deserve that, does she? He's been gone for seven years, the least he could do is read her damn postcards.)

They're still on the floor. The letters, that is. Retied with that string, bundled neatly and a half-assed attempt to hide them under the package-wrapping. (Butch will never admit that the thought of trying to read her letters kept him up last night. Tossing, turning, that kind of thing. Even in the dark, he could make out the outline of the letter-bundle, just sitting there. Almost miserable. Still calling for him in that damn handwriting. With the backward 'c's.) Dammit.

Forcing his eyes away from the letters, Butch shuffles over to his desk. He rests the eight-pack on the crumpled mess of loose papers. He still has no idea where they came from. Clutter has a tendency to accumulate around him. (Just like his life at ten years old ended up getting so damn cluttered. Falling apart, slipping through his fingers in the form of melting lemon and lime popsicles paired blissful laughter on a summer day.)

Butch tugs a can free from the pack, pressing the tab. It crackles open, that fizz of carbonated air escaping. The metal is cool in his hand.

God, Boomer was right about one thing. It's crazy being back here. In this damn town. Townsville never really did hold much appeal for him. The people are simplistic in their mannerisms, which, sure, was fun when they were still terrorizing the girls and finding amusement in that kind of thing. It gets old after a while. Same reactions, same heroic rescues, blah blah blah.

There's one conversation in particular that has him swallowing dryly. They'd been very aware at seven years old, he thinks. Just after that stupid truce. Buttercup had walked with him down the boardwalk, hands deep in her pockets, "Dontchu ever get bored of the same stuff?" And at the time, he'd cocked his head, genuinely confused, "The hell d'ya mean?" She'd shrugged, not looking at him. Aloof in a fashion that resembled more of Brick than herself. "Just...y'know." Then hadn't elaborated. At the time, that kind of behavior had pissed him off. Looking back, those stilted silences of her seven-year-old self had...spoken a lot more than she had at all.

"Stuff gets stale after a while." She'd murmured. Butch still didn't understand, horrifically thick at seven years old, "What do you mean?" He thinks, in hindsight, he'd been a little too eager to catch that rush of adrenaline that came from fighting to really slow down and realize that, huh, it really...does get stale after a while.

"Like -" She huffed. Buttercup had always been impatient. That's what made it so easy to rile her up. "Like when you eat the same food all the time, y'get sick of it?" All Butch ever ate was pizza, McDonald's and In-N-Out cheeseburgers. How could you _ever_ get tired of that? He'd told her exactly that. Finally aggravating her, she'd shoved him over the boardwalk railing into the sea.

The memory is...bittersweet at best. (Apparently it's a lot more evocative than he's letting on, because he's jolts at the sudden gush of wetness soaking into the sleeve of his jacket.) "Fuck!" His jacket. Dammit. He flusters briefly before hastily placing his crushed can on the corner of the desk. He needs to be more careful of this shit, for fuck sake. Butch shucks off his jacket, draping it over the back of the desk chair; his hand still drips with beer. Double dammit.

Glowering at the crushed can, he wipes his hand down his jeans. From somewhere in the apartment, Boomer calls, "What did you do this time?" To which Butch doesn't dignify a response. Instead, he moves to grab a different jacket from the mess on his floor. A simple hoodie this time, not his leather jacket. His really nice leather jacket with fleecy interior. That will now forever smell like fucking beer.

He drains what remains of the beer, before dropping the can into the wastebasket. Despite having gotten the beers for the sake of 'celebrating' their first day of school come Monday...he didn't really feel like there's much need to celebrate anymore. Goddammit.

And here he was thinking he could sleep tonight without stress.

His door swings open, Brick leaning against the doorframe. He wrinkles his nose, "Is that beer?" Butch huffs at him, "On my good jacket." Brick snorts, "Good luck getting that out, dumbass." Rolling his eyes, Butch fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie. "You want a beer?" The older boy shakes his head, "Not that cheap shit." There's a deep-set need to defend the cheap beer, but at the same time. It betrayed him. And ruined his nice jacket.

Shrugging, he sits down in the desk chair, "Suit yourself." There's a silence that rests uncomfortably in the air. Butch doesn't look at Brick (he knows the redhead has caught sight of the letters.) Though, ever in character, Brick doesn't comment. He wonders if his brother recognizes the handwriting the same way Butch did.

Brick moves to sit on the end of Butch's bed, staring holes into the side of his head. Butch isn't sure what he wants. "Anything I can help you with, Red?"

Brick rolls his eyes, "Don't call me that."

He grins, "Sure thing, Red."

Whatever grievous reason Brick came to intrude his bedroom, the reason probably just got a lot more heinous for that. Dammit. "But," The older boy continues, "Our bedsheets should be arriving soon." Right. That. Instead of looking at Brick, Butch finds immense interest in the plain white bedsheets clothing his bed. "Okay." He stares at his shoelaces.

He wonders if chucking them in the washing machine would do them any good. His laces. Poor laces, they're so...gray and grotty now. Frayed at the ends. He remembers these being pristine at the start of the week. Now they're still caked a little with fucking candy-dust and. Ugh. Other stuff – cigarette ash, dirt, that kinda thing. Double dammit. These were expensive, too. He kicks off his shoes.

"Who are the letters from?"

He feels his heart stutter.

He glances over, nonchalant as he can be under Brick's scrutiny, "Oh...uh, y'know. People." Slapping on a sloppy grin, he waggles his eyebrows, "Probably my fans, y'know. That kind of thing." Brick isn't buying it. Of course he isn't. It's _Brick_ , after all. "Right," He drawls, "So it wouldn't be from...the girls, or anything?"

Now that's weird. The – the quality of Brick's voice may have sounded... _hopeful_ , of all things. Butch throws a look at him, "Why would you care?" The older brother easily shoots back, "Why are you being defensive?" He doesn't have a good response to that. With it being obvious he has Butch stumped, he starts to reach for the top letter. Something cold jolts down his spine, " _Don't_." (He never tries to talk to Brick like that – that's, well, that's _Brick's_ thing, being the commanding, imposing one. Butch may have his moments, but he's never tried to be above his brother like that.)

He hadn't noticed at first, but he's jerked in his chair, as if ready to get up and push Brick's hand away. Thankfully, Brick retracts his hand. He feels his mouth dry up. Those striking eyes bore into him; contemplating. Then he stares back down at the handwriting. "Okay," He says finally. Butch blinks, "Okay?"

Brick nods, "I wont." _What_? Butch, dumbly, nods along, "You...wont." The redhead takes off his cap – unties his hair, reties it – puts his cap back on. It's...slightly off center, he can't help but notice. Not immaculately facing backwards like it usually is. Maybe he's riled Brick up with his half-command. In a shitty attempts to apologize, his gaze drops, "I, uh..." Sniffing, he leans back in his desk chair, "Y'know. Didn't mean to. Do that." Whatever that was (blind panic. But Butch Jojo doesn't panic.) Nodding once again, Brick remains seated on the end of Butch's bed.

His phone vibrates. Brick quickly looks at it before standing. He jerks his head towards the door, "Come on. Our bedsheets have arrived downstairs." Ugh. Down – _five flights_ of – stairs. "We're not taking the elevator," Butch sighs. Brick stares at him blankly. "Have fun walking down five flights of stairs, then."

No, he doesn't complain like a child all the way to the door. He doesn't put on shoes either, but that's another thing to overlook. He has a habit of not putting on something before leaving the privacy of somewhere.

"Where's curly fries, anyway?" Brick shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Said he wanted to go to the cafe across the street again." Butch frowns, "Did you tell him to bring some stuff back?" The angry-regretful look on his older brother's face says _no_. He glowers at Brick, "Red, how could you fuck up like this?"

"Don't call me that."

"Sure thing, Red," Butch says distractedly, whipping out his phone. There is a very urgent text he needs to send to Boomer. Though, due to his distraction, he makes the mistake of blindly following his brother. Which leads them into the _elevator_.

He only notices this when the doors hiss shut behind him. His head jerks up, only to stare into the mirrored wall of this damn death box. "Fuck." His reflection stare back at him; wide eyed and tight-lipped. "Fuuuuuck." He turns to the doors, ready to pry them open, but the sudden movement of the elevator making its decent sends him stumbling. Brick snorts. The douche is tucked safely into a corner of the box. Butch hunches his shoulders, shutting his eyes tightly. He's going to throw up, _christ_.

"Chill out," Brick chuckles. Butch narrows his eyes at him, "I'm making you take the stairs back up." Brick rolls his eyes, folding his arms. It isn't lost on Butch how his brother leans more into the corner.

His stomach churns unpleasantly. He watches intently, how the illuminated numbers by the number pad change from five through one. Finally, the elevator comes to a stop. The motion has him biting his tongue, "Shit." Brick easily saunters out of the elevator when the doors part. Butch is quick on his tail, as they step out into the lobby.

There's a delivery man there with two boxes. Looking away from the lobbyist, he clears his throat, "...Mr Jojo?" They both reply, "Yes?" The man glances between the both of them before clearing his throat. He holds out his clipboard, "If you could sign here -" He points his finger to another part of the paper - "And here, please." Butch lets Brick deal with the paperwork while he glances at the lobbyist.

She's watching him. Her face turns pink. He walks over to her, leaning on the desk, "How's it going, muñeca (doll)?" Debby twirls her hair around her finger, smiling, "It's going quite well, Mr Jojo." Oof. Butch wants to backtrack. This woman is in her mid-twenties at the very least, and she's put a weirdly flirtatious tone on. His stomach squirms. Still, he keeps smirking, "I'm glad to hear it." Debby leans forward a little bit, "How are you, Mr Jojo?" He wants to say something like, "Please, Mr Jojo is my father," but 1. that wouldn't make sense, and 2. he's not sure he's comfortable with this twenty-something year old calling him by his first name.

"I'm doing okay, I guess." Then Brick picks up one of the boxes. Butch excuses himself, picking up the other one. He starts for the stairs, and once he's out of sight of the lobbyist, he jogs up them four at a time. He doesn't want her to know he's hurrying away from her. Brick, for some reason, followed him up the stairs. From behind him, Butch hears the smirk in his tone, "Did you get intimidated by an older woman?"

He scrunches his nose, "No. Me? Intimidated? You know who you're talking to, right?" There's a dry chuckle, "Yes, I know who I'm talking to." A pause. "I'm talking to the wimp who got spooked by an emergency stop in the elevator one time." He sighs heavily, "Do you have to bring that up?"

"It's funny."

"No it's _not_."

"Hey, at least you weren't _in_ the elevator when it fell."

He purses his lips.

"Shut up, Red."

"Don't call me that."

"Sure thing, Red."

* * *

His bed looks better. The gray and green combination – tiny little toxic triangles, that kind of thing. Childish, sure, but he likes to think it captures him pretty well. Also because it's not white. He wriggles his toes a little, and smiles to himself. Boomer snorts from over his shoulder, "Jesus, you _child_." Butch rolls his eyes, "Like you're any better? You still have Digimon crap." Like not even Pokemon for fuck sake. _Digimon_. Boomer huffs from behind him, leaving Butch in silence when he closes his bedroom door.

At least he brought croissants back with him.

Butch sighs softly. Leaning against the doorway of his bedroom, he looks down at his bed. Under his bed is the stack of letters. Maybe he'll read one. Eventually. Probably not today, if ever. At least they're safe now. Away from Brick and Boomer and other prying eyes.

He turns around and strolls into the living room, "If I throw my sneakers in the wash do you think they'll get ruined?" Brick raises an eyebrow, "You're still mad about that?" Butch shrugs, "I like my shoes clean, dude." What he doesn't tell Brick is that whenever he stares down at his gross candy-power caked shoes, all he can think of is Blossom saying, "Buttercup's not going to like this." That's not something he really likes being reminded of. Brick hums from behind his book, "It might be okay."

"Huh?"

"Your sneakers in the washing machine."

"Right. Thought so."

Those intensely curious eyes on him again. "Are you going to do it today?" Butch scratches his cheek, heading towards the bag of croissants on the kitchen counter, "Well, are we doing anything today?" No answer.

Butch has a croissant stuffed in his mouth with flakey crumbs all over his fingers by the time Brick replies. "I was thinking we go out for dinner, maybe." He steps back into the living-room, "Ff mhal?" Brick raises an eyebrow, "Swallow your food." He chokes.

Once recovered, he clears his throat, "For real?" Then, "What do you have in mind?" Boomer yells from his bedroom, "I want an In-N-Out burger!" The oldest brother frowns, "I was actually thinking something _nice_." Butch cocks his head, "In-N-Out _is_ nice." The redhead puts down his book, "I mean nice like somewhere with _class_."

Boomer pokes his head out from his bedroom, "What do you know about _class_?" Brick easily retorts, "What do _you_ know about class?" Butch quietly creeps away with the bag of croissants. "Call me when we're heading out," He calls over his shoulder. Boomer looks at him as he passes. The blond only manages to realize he took the croissants when his door is safely closed shut. "Hey! I'm the one that paid for those!"

"Yeah? And I'm gonna be the one to eat 'em!"

Brick watches Boomer's face crumple with betrayal. "You dick!" The blond whirls, pleading baby blues on him, "Brick -"

"No."

"But -"

"Leave him alone, Boomer." The blond furrows his eyebrows, "...Why are you defending him? You _never_ defend him." If Brick didn't know any better, he'd think that was jealousy. But that's just curiosity. If Boomer was jealous, he'd be whining. "I'm not defending him." The youngest brother rolls his shoulder, "...I bought those croissants. With my own money."

"And I'll make him pay you back." Boomer steps into the living-room, flopping onto the couch. He looks at him over the back of it. The blond squints, "You know something." Brick drums his fingers on the face of his book, "I know Butch is..."

"Weird?" Boomer snickers, "A flirt? A virgin? Annoying?" Brick rolls his eyes. Maybe it's better to just leave Boomer out of this. Then Boomer frowns, voice lowered, "...Bro, tell me." Brick leans back on his beanbag, "You wont say a word of this to him." A pointed look gets his point across. Boomer makes the motion of zipping his lips shut, "Sure thing, bro." Brick clears his throat a little, playing with his hair. How...how does he word this without sounding like a mother hen? "He's being cagey."

Boomer glances at him – eyes widened just the barest fraction. It's enough for Brick to pick up on the panic. "So are you." The blond snorts, jerking a hand through his hair, "Ha, what? No way. We tell you everything." Right. Like he'll believe that. "So if you tell me everything, how about you tell me what you and Butch were whispering about earlier?" It's funny watching Boomer turn a shade paler. He keeps his expression schooled.

"It – uh, well. I don't know what you're talking about." Brick snorts, "Smooth." Boomer's face quickly colors as he glances away. He starts picking loose threads from the back of the couch. Brick stands up and places his book back on the bookshelf, "What happened at the supermarket?" There's no immediate response. He looks over his shoulder at Boomer, finding him with his lips pursed. Then, and Brick honestly isn't very surprised by this, Boomer admits, "Butch said not to tell you." Figures. "Did you get into trouble?" Boomer shakes his head – then shrugs, then rubs his neck. "Uh. Define 'trouble'?"

Suspicious. Brick narrows his eyes, "Boomer." The younger boy glances up at him. A nervous laugh, "Yeah?" Before Brick can ask again, Butch reenters the living-room. Always with that good timing. Dammit. If Butch is here, Boomer wont say anything. Boomer always crumbles when he's by himself. Butch whistles jauntily. Probably wasn't listening to their conversation, judging from the can of beer in his hands. "So there's that cool restaurant near the center of town, right?" What?

Butch continues, oblivious. He rummages around in the fridge, "Could probably head down there. Don't need a reservation or anything, I don't think." Brick hears him take a sip of his beer. "Nice dress-up, though. Like, uh, smart casual maybe?"

Boomer swallows audibly, glancing fervently between Brick and Butch, "Sounds fun." Butch starts whistling along to whatever song's stuck in his head. Brick doesn't recognize it. He lets the subject go, however. Butch has a way of getting somebody to side with him (in this case Boomer,) and manages to get them to keep quiet about whatever it is that conspired. Brick's...well, it is a skill Brick would like to have. "What else do you know about this place?" He asks.

Butch strolls back into the living-room. His eyes roll upward as he thinks, "...I'm...uh, _friends_ , with the guy that owns the place. We'd probably get food cheap." Brick arches an eyebrow at 'friends'. "This isn't a _business_ friend, by any chance?" Green eyes turn to him – blinking widely in what can only be described innocent. As innocent as Butch can get without it being obviously fake. Then it appears to click, and he grins, "What? _Nah_ , just a. Y'know, a friend." His voice trails off as he sips his beer.

(He hears Butch very darkly breathe, "He owes me, that's all.") Brick decides he'll leave Butch to his mishaps and turns back to Boomer, "What do you think?" Boomer whips out a smile, "Uh – yeah, it sounds fun. When are we leaving?"

Butch starts whistling again. Apparently the question fell deaf on his ears. Brick rolls his eyes, "When does the place open?" Butch glances back at them again, "Hm? Oh." Idiot. He shrugs, "Five-ish." Boomer nods, "I'm going to go get ready." The black haired siblings hums, "You've still got two hours, lil bro." The blond nods, "I know." Then promptly stands and disappears into his room.

Now it's just them again. That seems to be happening more often than not. "How do you know this place, anyway?" Butch reclines into the couch. More like sprawls; one of his feet hooked over the back of the couch while his head nearly falls off the armrest. He shrugs again, "Just do." Brick can't figure out if there's something more to that. (No, he wont admit that Butch is getting better at hiding stuff.) He keeps his face blandly disbelieving anyways, because that usually gets Butch to crack a little bit. "Just do," He repeats.

Something bitter crosses over Butch's face. Interesting. Odd, but interesting. His younger brother hums; it's lacking emotion. More forced than anything. Brick pretends he doesn't notice the beer can starting to crinkle under Butch's grip. Instead, he hums, "What theme is the restaurant for? Seafood, grilled...?"

Butch stares up at the ceiling, easily rattling off, "World-buffet type thing." He nods, strolling into the kitchen. He grabs a cup from the cupboard and fills it with water from the faucet. "So Boomer will still get his hamburger," Butch calls from the living room. Brick nods. "And you can have seafood if you really want," Butch scrunches his nose a little, "I'll probably just have the comfort food." Brick furrows his eyebrows, "Are you really going to eat mac and cheese at a restaurant?" Butch huffs at him, sipping his beer, "If I want mac and cheese, and they happen to serve mac and cheese, what's going to stop me from having mac and cheese?"

Brick flicks his forehead as he walks past, "Why are you after comfort food, anyway?" It's the closest to 'are you okay?' he'll get, really. Butch wriggles his toes in his Ben 10 socks, but doesn't answer. He sniffs a little, trying to appear nonchalant. "Just feel like it?" There's a reason behind that.

But if Butch doesn't want to share, then fine. They've never really been the most emotionally supportive triplets anyway. Most of the time, Brick's not sure if he likes it that way or not. It's pretty convenient. He doesn't get dragged down by baggage and other worries. At the same time, he thinks that maybe a couple sessions with a psychiatrist wouldn't hurt. He glances down at Butch. No, he thinks, maybe a therapist wouldn't hurt much at all. "Have you ever considered talking to a professional?"

Butch jolts, sitting up, "What?" Brick shrugs, looking around for the tv remote, "You've been a little out of mind since..." He shrugs again, "Well. Forever." He feels Butch's alarmed gaze on the back of his neck. It makes his skin prickle. "...I mean. Being created by a weird monkey man for the sole purpose of destroying the only people we'll ever find like us can kinda...do that...I guess." Then he tacks on, clearly a little ruffled, "'Sides, you're not exactly the prime example of morally correct, either."

Brick snorts, feeling a smile curl his mouth. He bites it down, digging into the couch cushions for the remote. "I just don't want to have to clean up any messes you cause at school come Monday." He can practically hear Butch roll his eyes, that lazy grin, "We'll be _fine_ , Red. Seriously."

"Don't call me that." And...any minute now.

Three...two...one?

He glances over to Butch. His younger brother has his eyes out the window. Lost in thought. This is also a thing that has been happening more often. Especially since the news that they'd be returning back to this jerkwater town. Sure, Butch had made a big deal, "Ugh – _there_? There's jackshit to do!" But Brick hadn't realized how much it affected him until they left the plane. How Butch had immediately separated himself from the group – the tequila bottles, sauntering off by himself to the luggage bay...and everything goes on from there.

Brick gives up his search for the television remote. Instead, he sits down on the couch and hums. Butch still doesn't notice. His grip on the beer can is getting tighter. (maybe that's how Butch ruined his jacket in the first place.) "You'll hurt yourself," Brick muses. Green eyes shift to him – still sort of...he doesn't know, maybe _vacant_ , or _detached_ , but he brushes both of those ideas away because this his brother we're talking about. Butch doesn't get despondent. (Does he?)

Then that murky, bottle-green color washes away to reveal a (suddenly fake looking) exuberance, "Hm?" Brick gestures vaguely at him, "All that thinking you're doing. Don't strain yourself." Butch snorts, knocking back the rest of his beer. There's an edge to how he _carefully_ sets the empty can on the table. His laugh is a little hollow, "Ha, yeah. Don't have to worry about that."

Butch sits up, stretching arms above his head. He yawns. "Actually, think I'm gonna go crash for a bit." Brick raises an eyebrow, "It's barely half-three." His younger brother hums, moving to stand. He rocks back and forth on his heels. His eyes are out the window again. Like he's lost to an entirely different world. Brick feels something stir uncomfortably in his gut. What is going on with Butch? He wasn't like this before he and Boomer went to the supermarket -

There it is again.

Maybe he can try it with Butch distracted. It's not the best tactic. Butch is good at not telling him anything – Brick usually has to try and figure it out himself, then confront him when he has all the facts. "Did something happen at the supermarket?"

"Yeah, Boomer trashed my fuckin' shoes."

An automatic response. Maybe not the first thing that came to mind when talking about the supermarket, but definitely the rehearsed answer. Brick narrows his eyes, "Other than that?" Butch yawns again. "Hm?" He lazily looks back over to Brick. He feels his eye twitch. The doting brother route wont work. He can't just out and say, "You've just been really out of it since you got back is all, I'm just worried." That would put the younger boy on edge. So, he throws an attempt into the void, "Any reason you're so spacey?" It comes out irritated, just like he wanted. Though, it's not that hard to pretend. He hates it when they try to hide stuff from him.

Butch stares at him for a moment, aimlessly blinking. Then he furrows his brows, "Dunno Red, probably just tired." Here's his chance. If Butch doesn't respond a second time, something is definitely off.

"Don't call me that."

Three...two...one:

A delayed response. "Sure...sure thing, Red." Then he picks up his can and drops it in the wastebasket on the way out. "Where are you going?" Brick calls. Butch throws over his shoulder, "I told you, I'm gonna lay down for a while. Call me when we're getting ready to leave." Dammit. And he still hasn't found the remote. Double dammit.

Brick forces himself back into the couch cushions. A hiss-like sigh leaves him. Fuck, what are they up to? It's not been like this since that time Boomer was trying to hide his crush on Bubbles from him. Except, knowing Butch, it's most likely much worse.

* * *

Boomer huffs in the bathroom mirror, dragging a comb through his hair. Brick watches boredly, leaning against the doorway. "Do you really think you need to be _that_ dressed up?" The blond is wearing a button-up shirt under a navy-blue sweater, with a lighter-blue breaker jacket over the top. Of course, paired with that is a pair of black slacks and some kind of shoes that Brick doesn't know the name of. So they must be high-fashion.

"Yes, I have to be dressed up," Boomer tells him. "Butch says it's somewhere nice -" a pause - "though, knowing him, he may have just lied a little so we could go out someplace to eat." Brick snorts, rolling his eyes, "He's always suffered cabin-fever, huh?" The blond rolls his eyes, "Tell me about it." Despite his annoyed tone, there's a smile edging the side of his mouth, "Drives me mad." Brick clears his throat, a little dismayed to be ruining this calm air. But this it out of a genuine concern when he asks, "Do you know if Butch is okay?"

Boomer fumbles with his comb, meeting his eyes in the mirror, "Huh?" He furrows his eyebrows, doubt shining in his eyes, "...What do you...mean by that?" Brick rolls his eyes, waving off Boomer's suspicion, "Nothing to do with whatever he's got you to try and hide from me -"

"I'm not hiding anything!"

"Yeah, and I'm inferior to Mojo," Brick drawls.

"Just." He shrugs. Being the doting brother isn't his thing. That's...honestly more Boomer's thing, if at all. "He's been really spacey since you guys got back." This concern is foreign, and he doesn't like it. It's this heated sensation, like a fever, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Boomer hums, shrugging a little, "I mean...I haven't really noticed anything. Maybe he's just on some of his..." Boomer rolls his eyes, " _Special spice._ " Brick shakes his head. Butch hasn't smoked pot for months now. There's no reason he'd randomly just start back up. Especially with the start of senior year practically on them. He sighs, tugging at the end of his ponytail, "...Okay." Maybe he's just being paranoid.

Still. He tries to listen to any sound from Butch's room. Nothing but deep breaths – god, he's still asleep? Despite many people assuming that, out of the three, Butch is most likely to be the moody teenager that sleeps until he's physically dragged out of bed, he isn't. No, Brick's younger brother never sleeps past nine in the morning, even if he went to sleep at six a couple hours prior. That's Butch's internal clock. _Up and at 'em!_ (Butch hates it. Brick revels in it, even though he's not a morning person. Someone else to share his misery with.)

Boomer seems a little surprised as well, leaning his head closer in the direction of Butch's room, "Is – is he still sleeping?" Brick nods. The blond blinks widely, before biting his lip, "...Maybe he's coming down with something." The older boy shrugs, stepping out into the hall, "I'm going to go wake him." Boomer nods, hesitantly resuming his hair-combing.

Brick strolls down the hall, knocking once on Butch's door. No answer, but he can just about hear his change in breathing. With a sigh, he pushes the door open.

His room is dark. The blinds are drawn shut, and Butch seems to have hooked one of his jackets up along the blind-rail to block out whatever light came through. Brick glances around. Those letters he saw earlier are now nowhere in sight, along with the old bedsheets Butch had stuffed into the corner. And there's Butch himself, curled up under his comforter. His hair peaks above, against his pillow, but he doesn't stir. Not even when the light from the hallway floods the room. Damn. Brick feels like he's intruding as he steps into Butch's bedroom.

He clears his throat, prodding Butch's shoulder, "Hey." The younger boy shifts a little, groaning into his pillow. Brick sighs heavily, "Butch." A little louder now, "Wake up, you jerk." Eyes peer at him in the dark; they have that weird, murky quality to them again. Not even the just-woke-up bleariness. It looks like he didn't even sleep. That bottle-green darkness; the acute glower sent his way is...off putting to say the least. "Hm?" Butch mumbles. Brick nodded his head towards the bedroom door, "You told us to wake you up when we're getting ready to leave." Some kind of sluggish clarity forces the drowsy quality from his younger brother, "Right."

The black haired boy sits up, rubbing his eye lazily. Brick watches his slow movements; slow, even for Butch, having just woken up. "I'll be out in a sec," He tells Brick, unceremoniously shooing him out of the room. Brick rolls his eyes, "Ten minutes, tops."

Butch scrubs his face again, watching Brick shut the door behind him. Ugh. He hadn't slept well. The entire idea of him going to sleep was so that he could try and escape whatever... _that_ had been – that weird funk. God, it was just...his mind had been going haywire. (A gnawing urge in the back of his skull. Everything kept making memories well up, he'd read too much into them, couldn't get away from them. Like that one time Boomer got shoved into the pool by Buttercup and she'd laughed for five minutes straight, god her cheeks had gone so pink and her eyes were wet when she'd calmed. He remembers being unable to look her in the eyes for ten minutes afterward.) He doesn't know if anybody picked up on it or not.

So, to remedy that awful stupor, Butch had moved the letters from beneath his bed. Now, they're sitting in the bottom of his closet, under a pair of jeans he'll never wear again and a sweater that's too small. Still, he'd shifted positions so many times. All he could feel was a burning ache behind his eyes and a lack of sleep.

But his bones were so heavy – still are, even now as he tugs on maybe the only nice pair of jeans he owns. No holes in them at least, so that's something. He wouldn't fall asleep, even if he'd stapled his eyelids shut. For a while, he'd dozed; eyelids dragging too much until they didn't open again. Then, weightlessness. Ten minutes, maybe twenty; his mind blissfully empty.

Then his phone had vibrated from a text from Rosa. Damn girl, so persistent, even an ocean away. _'How are you? Te extraño (I miss you).'_ And he hadn't responded. Though he hadn't blocked her number, either. So that had probably ruined the rest of his sleep, but he managed to keep his eyes closed.

Some indeterminable amount of time passed, and Red came in and woke him up. Great. Not that he's mad at his brother or anything, he _had_ told Brick to wake him up, after all. It just sort of. Sucked.

He feels like a zombie arisen. His mouth tastes like sandpaper and his eyes feel... _dry_. He groans, wedging his feet into a pair of sneakers. Still caked and caramelized. If he pays too much attention to it, he can smell the sugar. Saccharin; sickly. They're a good conversation starter, he supposes.

His poor sneakers.

He needs to throw them in the washing machine at some point. Though, simultaneously, he's not sure if that will trash them or not. He hopes not. These are his favorite sneakers.

His poor sneakers.

When he emerges from his bedroom, Boomer scrunches his nose at the sight of him. "What," He mumbles. Boomer wrinkles his nose even further, "Have you _seen_ your hair?" For a second, he just blinks blankly. Then retraces his steps, ducking into the bathroom.

Okay, so his hair's not _that_ bad.

Boomer's such a drama queen.

Yeah, it's a little bit of a mess; it's got volume to it, though. it...doesn't look that different from it's usual state. There's nothing wrong with it, his hair is just uglier than Boomer's standards. God, Boomer has such high standards. Rolling his eyes, Butch leaves the bathroom. He steps into the living-room, finding Brick lingering around in the kitchen doorway. Butch side-steps around him, moving to rummage through the fridge.

His older brother scoffs, "How many times are you going to root through the damn fridge?" Butch glances up at him with a shrug. He takes the orange juice carton from the fridge. While maintaining eye contact with those intense eyes, he uncaps the carton and chugs half of it in one go. Brick makes a face.

The redhead's cleaned up well. His hair's brushed into a slightly-less messy ponytail, a simple jacket and a pair of Timberlands. Butch stares down at the Timberlands. "When the fuck did you get Timberlands?" Brick rolls his eyes, "When did you get a pair hole-less skinny jeans?" Butch swallows, another sip from the carton, "Touché." It takes a minute for Butch to register Brick's next movements. He grabs a marker from the pen cup they – for some reason – have by the coffee machine, scribbling something onto the carton in Butch's hands.

"That's yours now," Brick grimaces, re-capping the pen. Butch looks down at the scribble. It's his name, in that black marker. He slaps on an overzealous grin, false enthusiasm lighting up his face, "Aww, how sweet! That's real generous of you, Red!" Heated eyes dart to him, irritated. Also wary, but Butch ignores that part.

"Don't call me that."

"Sure thing, Red."

If Butch was a moron and didn't know his brother was incapable of simplistic emotion, he would've thought Brick's shoulders slumped with relief. But, since Butch does know his brother (for the most part,) he knows those slumping shoulders were out of irritation. He smirks (it doesn't feel the most genuine, but that's another thing on the list of Things Butch Ignores,) "That's what you're wearing?"

Brick bristles the slightest bit, "Got a problem with it?" It's at this moment that Boomer returns from the bathroom, huffing, "That damn hat." Butch snorts, screwing on the cap of the carton and shoving it back in the fridge. Boomer glowers at him, "So the OJ's yours now?" He nods.

The youngest scoffs, "You're gross." He glances at Brick, "Isn't he gross?" The redhead nods, "So gross." Butch rolls his eyes, shoving past them, "You make me sound like I ate gum off the street or some shit." There's a gagging noise behind him, "I've actually seen you do that before, Butch, it's not that hard to imagine."

Huffing, Butch stops by the couch to swipe the remote from in between the couch cushions. Still there. So Brick didn't find it after all. Humming, he drops it on the coffee table. When he meets Brick's eyes, his brother is less than impressed. "Ready to go?" Butch asks.

The other two nod, and soon, they're arguing about whether they're taking the elevator or the stairs. "I've already been on the elevator more times than I should have in a week, I'm not going on that damn death drap," Butch snaps, shoving his hands in his pockets. He starts striding to the other end of the hall, where the stairwell rests. Brick huffs, rolling his eyes, "Are you seriously walking down five flights of stairs?" He rolls his shoulder, a noncommittal tune whistled into the quiet. He can hear his brothers head for the elevator. Fine. They can fall down a goddamn elevator. He'll watch and laugh.

Besides. Five flights of stairs aren't that bad when you can fly.

His feet touch the floor just as the elevator doors hiss open. Brick raises an eyebrow at him. Boomer rolls his eyes, skipping along to the doors. He pauses, "We're not walking there, are we?" Butch strolls at a leisurely pace, lingering back with Brick. "You say that like it's the worst thing in the world."

The blond drags a hand through his hair, "It _is_." Brick rolls his eyes, "The place isn't that far." A look at Butch, "Right?" Butch scratches his cheek, shrugging. He starts out into the streets, strolling along. His brothers loudly protest, calling out and demanding he answer them. Butch keeps his mouth shut.

A little walk wont hurt them.

* * *

Upon arrival, Butch understands that the place not actually be much. It's just another quasi-classy place on a block full of almost carbon copies. Some obscure name, a neat little _'we're open!'_ sign and tall windows. Only a twenty minute walk from the apartment, too. Still in what classifies as the 'nice area' of Townsville.

Good food, good service, good atmosphere. Only downside is that _Mitch_ works here. Upside? He _will_ give Butch a discount, or his face can be easily acquainted with the nearest wall. Fucking Mitch. Lover boy. Casanova. (The one that got Buttercup's first kiss.) He also owes Butch three meals worth of discounts, due to the amount of times Butch paid for his school lunches when they were in elementary. And, y'know, maybe catching up with some of his old friends will be nice. He grits his teeth at the thought.

The trio step into the establishment. They're met with faux wooden floors, white-washed walls with brickwork accents and low-hanging overhead lights. Tables are simplistic, as well as the minimalist-style paintings hung scarcely along the walls. The person waiting at the front foyer looks at them, whipping out a smile. "Hello!" She says, stepping forward. Her almond-shaped eyes are familiar, but Butch skips over that. "Hey," He smirks, "Think we could get a table?"

The girl glances down at her computer before nodding, grabbing a menu from the stack and ushering the boys into the main area, "So, what are you boys looking for?" Butch easily rattles off his preference. It's easy to remember it, after years of having to try and accommodate the three of their tastes. "You got a corner booth, maybe? With a nice view." She girl nods, smiling along as she draws them towards a nicely secluded booth in the back. A large window, the booth itself situated to face the rest of the area.

The boys take their seats.

"I'll grab a waiter for you, okay? How about you boys have a look at the menu," The hostess places the menus down on the table before disappearing. If Butch pays too much attention, he can hear individual conversations. For now, their fellow patrons' conversations remain a slight buzz. He tries to ignore them, though, there are only so many to begin with. People go early to places to try and get a table before somebody else does. C'est la vie. Or something like that.

Brick takes the seat in the corner, able to watch everyone around them. Boomer practically glues himself to the window, 'ooh'ing and 'ahh'ing out the window. The view is...well, it's certainly a view. The way the buildings are positioned to allow you to see through the large gap between them towards the beach. How quaint.

Butch slides in beside Brick, able to look around the restaurant. There's a group of boys near the front, in one of those huge eight-seater booths rather than Butch's nice little four-seater. A table of two, where a teenage couple giggle and shyly hide behind their menus, another couple of the middle-aged variety chatting down near them. It's interesting to look at the contrast. The confidence in a relationship and the rickety beginnings of one.

He lazily flips through his menu. He already knows what he wants, but looking doesn't hurt. The menu is a little worn around the edges but still relatively pristine. The same options – ranging from chicken curry to lasagna to fucking gumbo of all things. Like Butch said: world-buffet style. It still makes him want to cry a little, though.

Boomer drums his fingers on the table, humming, "Veggie burger looks..." He scrunches his nose, "...weirdly appetizing." Brick snorts, "You're not turning vegan on us, are you?" Boomer rolls his eyes, "There's a difference between vegan and vegetarian, Brick." Butch drawls, bemused, "Is there really?" Then he tacks on, "Get the hamburger. It's healthier." The blond squints at him, "No it isn't!" He ignores the boy.

Butch clears his throat after another minute or two, "Everybody know what they want?" Boomer shakes his head, scanning the menu intensely. He can't help but think the blond looks like he sucked on a lemon. Or when a cat gets pissed that you stepped on its tail. "Who pissed in your cereal?" He asks. Boomer squints at him, "What?" He shrugs, "You look pissy." The youngest brother narrows his eyes further, "No I don't."

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Enough," Brick says evenly. "Our waiter's here." Oh, he sure is. Butch throws on a smirk, "Mitch." Mitch hasn't changed much. Still got a mop-hairdo and his nose is still a little perky. Freckles galore, almond eyes and his two front teeth are the slightest bit crooked.

Mitch picks up immediately. He fumbles with his notepad, eyes wide, "...Butch?" A crooked grin, amazement, "No way, man." Brick huffs quietly. He's not sure if Brick's annoyed at being recognized or with the lack of order-taking. Probably both. Mitch runs a hand through his hair. Butch isn't sure what to make of Mitch in a nice button-up and slacks, so he ignores that for now. Though, true to fashion, Mitch's name-tag reads 'mitch rocks'. Butch isn't sure how things have changed, or what topics he's allowed to venture in to, so he keeps it at a short, "How're things going, dude?"

"Well," Mitch shrugs, "They're going." Then he looks around, leans in a little, "Tell you the truth, it's been kinda quiet." Huh. Weird. So it's not just Butch that got that feeling then. He hums contemplatively. Then he grins, "Well, it wont stay that way for long." Mitch snorts, laughing, "Of course it wont."

Then he nudges his notepad a little, "So what can I get you guys?"

Brick rattles off his order easily enough. A rare steak and fries with cola. Butch grins, "Gimme some of that mac 'n cheese, man" Mitch rolls his eyes, jotting it down, "God, you don't change, do you?" Butch shrugs, "And a vanilla milkshake." Nodding, the boy turns to Boomer, "What's it for you, blondie?" Boomer hums, still scanning the menu. He starts and stops a few times, shaking his head. Butch mutters, "Get him a hamburger and salad."

With the ordeal over, Mitch excuses himself. Boomer frowns, "Where'd he go? I didn't order -"

"Yes you did."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

Brick sighs heavily, "Will both of you shut up?" The boys turn to him. Boomer whines, scrubbing a hand down his face, "What did you get me?" Brick shrugs; Butch watches him twirl the ends of his hair. Damn hippie. "Hamburger and a salad," The oldest sighs. Boomer grumbles to himself, shaking his head, "Great. Just great."

Butch scrubs a hand down his face, "Fucking hell, isn't that what you wanted?" Boomer shrugs, "I wanted a real hamburger." He scrunches his nose, "The fuck do you mean by that?" His baby brother flusters, gesturing loosely with his hands, "Well – y'know, a junkfood hamburger. From In-N-Out or something, I dunno."

Staring up at the ceiling is better than glowering holes into the blond's face, "Ungrateful little shit." Brick shoots him a curious look. It isn't like Butch to take on that kind of attitude, he's aware. It's just...he's been a little more irritable recently. Recently being _today_. He probably woke up on the wrong side of bed.

And also had a weird run in with two girls he never really got along with in the first place.

And they may or may not have confirmed that the only girl he did get along with kinda-sorta hates him.

So. Y'know. Not the best start to the morning.

Brick's still looking at him. Butch ignores him, turning to look around the restaurant again. Still boring. Not much happening. With a sigh, he lets himself sink further into the booth. Butch has so many questions he wants to ask. Mainly about how things have changed, and sure – he could ask Mitch, or even just find out himself, but...there's only one person he really wants to hear it from. Apparently she doesn't like him anymore.

"Buttercup's not going to be happy about this," Pinky had said. It makes him frown. Mostly because there's probably no way of making it better. Boomer scoffs him from his reverie, "Why do you look so moody?" He glances up, "What?"

He feels Boomer kick him under the table, "Yeah, you're like being really emo." That...doesn't clear anything up. Butch flips him off, "I'm not emo, you brat."

Before Boomer can ruin his mood further, Mitch swings by with their food. Butch grins at the sight of his mac n cheese; steaming, cheesy – sure, looking suspiciously like _Kraft_ , but who cares? "One mac and cheese, a rare steak with fries, and one burger with a side of salad." He juggles the dishes for a second before setting them noisily onto the table. Butch may or may not have tripped him up. Mitch may or may not have glared.

We'll never know.

"I'll be back with your drinks," Mitch huffs. His mop of hair ruffles with the action. Butch smirks at him, "More grace this time, please." Mitch kicks him as he walks away, but it doesn't hurt. It never has. Mitch just can't hurt Butch the way _she_ could. Kinky.

Their drinks arrive, served by another waiter, and Butch doesn't think much of it. Boomer chomps happily into his hamburger, groaning reverently. His baby blues roll up to the ceiling. Graphic. "This is _just_ what I needed -" Boomer smacks his lips loudly. From his peripherals, Brick scrunches his nose distastefully. Blasé, Brick asks, "Do you have to sound like you're in a gay porno?" Boomer chokes and that's when Butch snorts and takes a bite of his mac and cheese.

He hadn't really noticed that he missed this back-alley town.

* * *

If he lays still long enough, he can hear his brothers in their bedrooms. Boomer snoring away; his sheets rustle every time he turns over, until they slump off the bed all together. Brick is typing away on his laptop, and Butch can only assume he's writing up an aggressive email to Wendy. That's really the only time Brick ever bothers to use his laptop, really. But after a while, the click of Brick's lamp being turned off makes Butch flutter his eyes open. Steps; one, two, three, a mattress creaking under a weight. Brick is now in bed.

Another ten minutes pass, and Butch hears Brick's breathing even out.

Butch stares up at his ceiling. It's late. Every time he looks at his phone, the number only gets later. First it was eleven twenty-three, then it was twelve fifty-two, after that was one oh-six. Now, as he checks a fourth time, the bright screen reads 01:46 AM. Wonderful. This isn't how he wanted the weekend to go, honestly. Now it's maybe twenty-three hours or so until he has to go and face the music.

He throws himself into a sitting position in his bed. The room is dark; the streetlights are dim, leaving stripes of yellow and bleak white on his wall. The blinds flutter whenever a breeze comes by. That's what he gets for leaving the window open, he thinks.

But, as he stands and grabs his lighter from his jeans on the floor and a cigarette from his desk, he can't help but think that maybe an open window is a sacrifice he's willing to make. Lighting his cigarette, he parts the blinds to lean against the windowsill. Shirtless probably isn't the best option. Then again; fifth floor facing away from the general vicinity, it's not the worst option either.

Butch wonders if -

Butch wonders maybe -

Butch wonders.

And wonders.

And wonders.

A lot of things, really, that's what he wonders about. There are letters in the bottom of his closet, and he wonders when he'll man up and read them. There are six cans of cheap beer on his desk, and he wonders if chugging all six in one go will be enough to get him drunk. There are memories in the back of his head, and he wonders if maybe they wouldn't hurt so much if he confronted the main star in all of them.

He takes a drag, watching the smoke curl out into the night air. That's when Butch notices it – them. A figure on the roof of the neighboring building. It doesn't reach five floors, but three. Butch can freely look down at the figure without fear of being caught just yet.

She – it _is_ a she – sits against the AC and there's some sort of drink can in her hands. It gleams dimly in the moonlight. Butch rests his elbows on the windowsill, wedging his cigarette between his teeth. She's familiar. From above, all he can see is dark hair and threadbare jeans, but. It's at that moment that the girl tips her head back, and Butch pretends he isn't frozen stiff.

Though, his panic is for nothing. She isn't even looking at him – _past_ him, up at stars and Venus rising. There's a drowsy sort of smile he can make out in the dim, and yellowing streetlights give her an artificial halo. His hands are clammy. His hands are clammy, his throat feels hoarse, and he has so many things he wants to say.

But she doesn't even see him.

It's like he isn't even there.

Butch can't tear his gaze away. She's just – _there_ , right there are the roof below, lounging with a can of... _beer_. He blinks dumbly, turning to glance at his eight-pack on the desk. He counts them. He's had two beers total today. There are six cans left. Not one of his then, but it's a beer.

God, there was never a day that he ever thought she'd drink.

Feeling bold, he leans further out the window. His cigarette cherry is dimming to ash. He takes a smoke, breathes heavily. And she's still just two stories below, knocking back beer. It's not like he can really blame her, he supposed. Butch doesn't know what she's going through. Butch doesn't know anything about her anymore. He stares down, two stories and a roof top, at a stranger.

Her hair looks pitch black; paint spilled onto concrete. If he listens hard enough, he can hear the AC whirring steadily. And her. Murmuring, slurring. Another thing Butch wonders: how many has she had already? Surely she wont be drunk on just one beer, that...that wouldn't work.

And that only leads him to the conclusion that maybe this isn't the girl he's thinking of. Buttercup – she...she wouldn't drink, no, she never had liked alcohol. She liked soda and apple-cherry bubblegum. Butch bites his lip. What would Buttercup even be doing out here, one in the morning, when she always got up early to play soccer on Sundays? Exactly. She wouldn't be out here. She wouldn't be knocking back Bud Light and muttering song lyrics to herself like a sicko.

At least, Butch doesn't think she would.

But...that's her favorite song she's singing down there, this doppelganger haloed by the streetlights instead of the moonlight. He finds himself breathing along, "I've seen a punch or two, narrowly escaped a few, and if you could get the day off, I could show you a view..."

The girl looks around a little, but she quickly drops her concerns and returns to her drink. There's...no way that's Buttercup, Butch decides. No way. She wouldn't just let her guard down like that. Not when Townsville has the potential for crime around every corner. He purses his lips, smoking the last few dregs of his cigarette before dropping it down in to the alley between the two buildings. But when she's finished with her can, she looks directly at him.

Standing on the roof, swinging her arms back and forth. She cranes her neck to look up at him. It's her. He _knows_ those eyes, has been subjected to their scrutiny more than once - the vehemency in them, how hard and glaring they are. How _green_ and blazing. Butch – he's frozen on the spot, stuck in this staring contest with a buzzed Buttercup who just sat there for ten minutes singing along to Neck Deep songs.

He makes out her small frown. The furrowing eyebrows, the way her head cocks to the left. It's...too much. He swallows around nothing, but he can't move. It's like she's waiting for something. Whatever she's waiting for, it doesn't come. She drops her head, and kicks her can away. Then Buttercup strolls for the edge of the roof and disappears over the side.

Butch feels his heart clench.

He vaguely registers his bedroom door opening. Brick's presence is different from Boomer's, you see, because Brick has a kind of importance in his stance that makes him hard to ignore. Boomer, on the other hand, feels like a cat waiting for attention, or a bowl of kibble. And with Brick, Butch doesn't feel the need to try and speak.

"Why are you singing at quarter-to two in the morning." Good question. Answer? Not something Brick will like, so Butch keeps his mouth shut. It's...not like he could really give a coherent answer if he tried.

He blindly reaches for a can from the pack on the desk. Behind him, Brick moves to sit in Butch'd desk chair. It's more surprising when he hears Brick take one of the beers and snap the tab. They drink in silence.

When Butch has composed himself enough, he turns around and sits on the windowsill. He watches Brick carefully. His older brother sits in a pair of sweatpants and some lame looking Invader Zim shirt. His hair is loose around his shoulders, cap missing. He looks tired. Butch can relate.

His mind reels. Does – does he talk about what he just saw? Or just leave it? He should probably just leave it alone, right, it's not like Brick gives a damn. They're brothers. They don't have stupid heart-to-heart chats and share their dreams. They're brothers. Not friends. Butch sniffs nonchalantly. His throat feels too tight to breathe. He watches Brick wrinkle his nose at the taste of his beer. Still, he continues to drink.

"Any reason you're still awake?"

"Any reason _you're_ still awake?"

Brick's eyes gleam scarlet in the streetlights outside. A piercing look that cuts away at Butch's wall of protective brambles. "Answer the question, Butch." For a minute, Butch entertains the idea of just jumping out the window. It's not like Brick cares enough to actually follow him. Hell, even right now, Brick is only here because Butch inconvenienced him somehow. So he's here to fix it. Once his queries are satisfied, Brick will leave him adrift. Butch will be alone with his thoughts again, and...well, it's nothing new. Right? Right.

"Just not tired," He shrugs.

His older brother continues to stare at him. Not buying it. Of course he isn't. "You had a nap today -" For a seconds, Butch thinks the other boy is playing along - "So something's wrong." Great. He snorts, knocking back the rest of his can. He _carefully_ places it beside him. So it doesn't crumple under his grip again. "Just because I had a doze doesn't mean something's _wrong_ , Red."

It does. It's been a habit since they were kids. If he's upset, he just sleeps it off. Kinda like a toddler that way, really, but it's nothing Butch can be bothered to feel ashamed about. He looks out the window. The stars are pinpricks on a canvas of black-blue paint. He has a feeling Bubbles would have more romantic methods of describing it. He wonders how Boomer's holding up.

Brick clears his throat. He blinks, glancing back at his brother, "Hm?" The redhead looks like he's waiting for something. When Butch doesn't immediately meet expectations (ouch,) Brick just shakes his head, "Go to sleep, Butch."

If only it was that easy.

"Ditto," He huffs.

Bedroom door shuts with a soft click. Butch doesn't move from the windowsill. He wriggles his toes, staring down at the floor. Maybe something is wrong. So what? With them, something's _always_ wrong. How is this any different? Answer: it's not. Nothing has changed, nothing is different. This is just another thing they'll have to hurdle.

His feet carry him back to his bed. He falls face-first. To be honest, he feels more drained than he had before. Still, his eyes don't stay closed for long.

The ache in his chest is too much to ignore.


	3. chapter three

**RATED M** just in case (there's swearing and maybe violence, but i read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)  
 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.):** 13,903

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. the fic will most likely just be told from butch's POV, but it could switch every now and then - i'm still not sure, so.

/NO BETA! still no beta. i can't be bothered, okay, i'll admit. don't hate me, don't be surprised if you find mistakes. you have been warned. not sorry.

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** butch, that isn't your towel /or/ why does brick know my little pony?

* * *

Brick wonders, if one day, Butch will ever grow into a new skin. Now that sounds weird, sure, but hear him out: Butch is a creature of habit. And those two terms sound unrelated – 'new skin' and 'habit' – but they both describe his second youngest brother pretty well.

On the outside, Butch looks like he's changed. When he was kid, Brick remembers how he was a little more scrawny, and around the same height as himself; his freckles were a little more pronounced. Now, Butch is damn near six foot four and hitting the gym after school didn't hurt; if his smile is worth a thousand dollars, then his smirks are worth less than a penny. He looks like he's changed; maybe he's matured a little, you'll never know unless you get to know Butch. If you knew him before, and know the after.

But he's still the same.

You'll catch him singing along to old rock songs in the shower. He drinks straight from the carton. Leaves his homework 'til the last minute, watches Saturday morning cartoons, forgets which towel's who's and just uses whichever, pretends he didn't hear you for the sake of doing the thing you told him specifically not to do ("Don't fall in love," Brick told him, and Butch has never been good for orders,) listens to his music on full blast. The list goes on.

Oh, it goes on.

And he's still the same.

Brick knows Butch likes to stare out windows when he has something on his mind. It's a habit of his, one he's had since he was a kid. Just like how if something hurts, he'll stay up until sunrise, and he's like a dog gnawing at it's own leg until it's a stump. Dumb kid, Brick thinks. And that's the thing, isn't it? Butch is a kid, in his own way. A drinking, smoking, temperamental kid with ADHD. Butch gets attached to things, and he likes to hold them close ("Don't get too close," Brick told him, and Butch has never been good for orders,) so when they try to leave he sinks his talons into them and drags them back deeper. He's desperate like that. What he's desperate for, Brick doesn't think he'll ever know.

But Boomer? Boomer likes to change, gets bored after a while, and demands something _new_. Boomer used to like dark blue, but now he likes a shade Brick doesn't know the name of – _peacock_ or something stupid like that. His youngest brother would listen to ABBA on repeat. To the point where Butch would punch him. And now, Boomer can't stand ABBA. He likes Kesha, now. Brick doesn't know if that's an improvement.

One of Boomer's constants is that he sucks at lying. That's one thing Brick can rely on. If Boomer's lying, then Butch is lying. That's how they've always worked, those two. Boomer will stick his nose where it doesn't belong, and Butch will make sure he keeps his mouth _shut_.

And that's the game they play. Brick is left poking and poking and poking, and really, that's one of the main reasons why Boomer doesn't talk to him so much anymore. But for their sake, Brick is an unchanging pillar. If he has to pry information from them to make sure they're safe, then he will. Boomer's always been easier to crack than Butch though, surprisingly. With how much his second brother runs his mouth, you'd think it'd be the opposite. Brick has to admit...Butch makes a great liar. At the same time, Brick fucking hates that. For obvious reasons.

So when Brick sits by the bookshelf with his morning coffee, his routinely game of 'who's hiding what' ensues. So far, Boomer is still trying to pretend he doesn't know anything. Like he isn't hiding a secret, isn't letting Butch bully him into silence. Butch himself takes a little longer to come out of his room.

When he does, the guy looks like he barely slept. Though, his eyes are still bright and his sluggish smirk grates on Brick's nerves about as much as it does usually. His brother's hair is a mess. Not his usual just-had-sex kind of way either, or that wind-swept look that he rarely styles it into. A _mess_ , just like the rest of him.

This is starting to get concerning now.

Last night? Sure, Butch was right. He can have his off days, and he usually bounces back; no problem. They're teenagers, after all. Superhuman teenagers, at that. It's not uncommon to have a rough day or anything.

Butch has more care than this, though. He's not like Brick, where he can just slick some hair gel and call it a look. Butch likes to look at least somewhat decent, he knows that much, it's something Boomer rubbed off on him. So, as Butch shuffles in with his annoying coy smile, Brick narrows his eyes.

His brother does his morning routine. Venture into the kitchen, rummage through the fridge. Drink straight from the carton, hum a jaunty tune (it sounds weary, this tune, though he knows it's a happy song.) Boomer stretches his arms high above his head on the couch. "I'm going out," He announces. Like he has every morning. "Where're y'goin'?" Butch yawns. Where else would Boomer be going? "Cafe," Boomer replies. He stops by the hall mirror to fiddle with his hair before sauntering out of the apartment. The door shuts with a slam.

Grumbling, Brick's remaining younger sibling moves to sprawl on the couch. Same as yesterday; one foot hooked over the back, his head lolling to the point he might fall. But he doesn't. Brick stares at him for a second. At least Butch picks up on his staring quicker than last time. He raises an artful eyebrow, "What, Red?"

Instinctively, he mutters, "Don't call me that."

Butch shrugs, "Sure thing, Red."

And it feels like everything has gone back to normal. It hasn't. Brick knows, because he knows the dark circles under Butch's eyes, and he knows the way he keeps drumming his fingers on the floor. "What's gotten into you?" It's out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Then again, did...did Brick really want to stop himself? It doesn't even sound harsh, or mean, or biting. The confused words linger in the air between them.

Pathetic fallacy, Brick thinks, has never been more accurate. Through the window, the skies are gray. A filmy drizzle; a contrast from yesterday.

Butch draws him back from his thinking. "What're you talkin' 'bout?" Still tired. His voice is low, rumbling. Brick sighs at him. He wonders how long Butch was awake before he emerged from his room this morning. "I'm talking about... _you_ , asshole." Green eyes – bottle green, murky once again – roll at him, a scoff following, "Very specific, Red. My entire world has been enlightened." Sarcasm never really has been a good look for Butch. He's too...genuine. It just comes off as downright _mean_ , and, well. Maybe that's not too far off today.

He clenches his fists. Butch doesn't care or notice, tipping his head back on the arm of the couch. For a minute, Brick can pretend it's just a warm day. His brother still hasn't got his shirt on yet, and he's lounging in his pajama shorts. It's not that far off. If he'd stop _tapping the fucking floor._

"You're not telling me something."

The pile of letters on the floor.

The demanding, " _Don't_."

The late-night singing.

The weird mood.

The dozing.

The beer.

The beer.

The beer.

"When do I ever tell you anything?" Is Butch's derisive sigh. That – he'll admit – catches him off guard. Not that he lets it show. When does he ever let anything show? He doesn't, that's when. That's not his character in their fucked up sibling friendship. Instead, he glares, "They say 'sharing is caring', y'know."

Green eyes find his again. Ever defiant. "And I should care because..."

He leaves the statement. Smartass. Brick feels his jaw twitch. So early in the morning, dear god. When Brick doesn't answer immediately, Butch continues,

"And you care because..."

"Or, y'know -" Butch stands up, stretching his arms out in front of him - "Neither of us could care and leave it at that." Then he swivels on his heel and heads for the bathroom. "I'll be in the shower," Butch hums. He scratches his cheek idly, back to humming and his eyes back to a more recognizable shade of green. Like none of it had ever happened. Brick feels his stomach knot. He's left alone in the living room. With his book.

Brick doesn't feel like reading anymore.

So he stands up, sighing heavily as he places the book back on the shelf. There's...one thing he can do. And that's raid Butch's room. But does he really want to do that? No. Is it looking more and more like his only option? Yes. So Brick carefully pads down the hall, past the bathroom. When he tunes in, he can hear Butch singing along to more songs - "Is it too late to say, too late to say that I'm sorry for the things I do? I'm missin' you like shit today..." Brick wonders if he paid more attention to the lyrics, it'd be easier to pick up on Butch's problems.

Though, he's not the poetic sort, so he doesn't bother.

He can never let Butch's secrets stay secret for too long. They eat him up inside. They keep him up at night. They make him hurt; like a dog gnawing on its own leg. It's...pathetic, really, but Butch is one of a kind. That's not always a good thing.

Brick glances around the room once he steps in. His leather jacket still draped over the desk chair; desk itself laden with papers. Brick has no idea where _those_ came from, since Butch doesn't have homework to slack off yet or anything else. Weird. The window's still open from last night. Wide open. Making the blinds flutter in the harsh breeze that works its way through the room. Brick makes a note to leave it alone. He wants to close it, but if anything's upturned, Butch will know. He's got a stupidly specific memory like that. Can't tell you the function of mitochondria, but he can tell you that WKD is a sparkling flavored vodka pre-mix drink, made by blending mixed fruit flavors with triple distilled vodka.

There are a couple shirts and a pair of jeans on the floor. His gross-ass, candy-caked sneakers by the foot of his bed. There's nothing really out of the ordinary. The letters are missing, though. Probably hidden to avoid another incident like yesterday. Brick shuffles over to crouch by Butch's bed. He looks underneath, hoping to find anything worthwhile. No such luck. Dammit.

Brick pulls up from the bed. If he was Butch, where would he hide a personal pile of papers he doesn't want anybody reading? In the closet? He almost goes for it, but that's stupid. And obvious. Butch wouldn't do that. Maybe his nightstand. Brick tugs the drawer open, but finds nothing but a few rolled up cigarettes and broken lighters. A porn mag, too, but it's not been touched for a while.

He shuts the drawer, moving to look around a little more. This is bullshit. Why did he ever think that Butch's problems would just be in plain sight? Double dammit.

Then he hears the shower shut off. Butch's singing is still loud in their spacious apartment. Brick swiftly exits Butch's room – just in time for Butch to step out of the bathroom. Still dripping wet, towel low on his hips. _Brick's_ towel. Sort of explanatory, since his is the black one. Oh well. This isn't the first time Butch has done this. Though by now, you'd think he'd understand that his towel was the _gray_ one.

Butch's singing comes to a stop as he glances up through his wet bangs, "Uh...anythin' I can help you with, Red?" Right. He's still standing directly in front of Butch's door. Crap. "No," He starts. Then stops. Clearing his throat, he removes his cap to re-tie his hair, "No, just. Thought I heard something from your room, is all."

Butch stares at him for a long moment. Then glances up to his bedroom door. It's the small mercies, Brick thinks, as Butch drawls, "Well...I did leave my window open. I'll close it." Though his second brother is still dubious, at least he's not immediately on Brick's ass about hanging around his bedroom door. Thank god.

It's the small mercies.

Butch _maybe_ shuts the door behind him a little harder than necessary. Fuck, his heart is racing. He looks around his room. Nothing looks out of place. Maybe Brick did just hear something. His window is open, after all. But...Butch grits his teeth snatching a pair of underwear from his closet, shimmying them on before patting himself down with the towel. His bedsheets are askew. Like they were lifted up. He frowns.

What was Brick looking for?

Dread coils in his stomach. Without bothering to grab his jeans just yet, Butch wrenches open his closet and carefully moves his old sweatshirts out of the way. Okay. Everything's okay. The letters are still there, in their string-tied bundle. 'Butch' still stares at him in ugly, pretty, scrawled handwriting (backwards 'c', it's always the backwards 'c' that gets him.) Untouched. Untampered with. Unloved and left to rot in the bottom of his closet. Where they'll stay until Butch needs something to cry over.

He turns in a circle. There's nothing really significantly out of place, but Butch just _knows_ Brick's been in here. Huffing, he grabs a beer from his remaining few and guzzles it in one sitting. The effect is barely a tingle in his fingers, if at all. Disappointing. He crunches the can in his hand, throwing it at the wastebasket. It misses. Dammit.

Butch swings his arms fruitlessly. There's not really much he should be getting worked up over. Right? Right. His eyes drift to the window. He frowns. There was no sleep to be had last night. Double dammit.

It's just – _how_?

How do you go to sleep after watching your old best friend drink? Drink _alone_ , and singing her favorite songs in this hollow, low voice. (What he doesn't think about is how her eyes were a glassy sort of bottle-green, murky, cold, distant. It's a look he's seen in the mirror all too often.) It, even with his lack of conscience, proved to be an impossible task.

When he turns to the window, his gaze is immediately drawn to the roof below. The rain makes the concrete glisten. He sort of wants to lie down in it. But that's stupid and pathetic, so instead, he grabs a shirt from the floor and tugs it on over his head. It's one of his trashy boardwalk shirts; it's got a blood stain down the front and there's a hole from where his ex's too-long nails tore into it. It's easily hidden when he shrugs on his jacket.

Sure, it smells like beer, but what can you do? Wash it? He wrinkles his nose at the thought.

Butch fiddles with the collar. It's worn under his fingers; battered from use, that kind of thing. It's a comfort. Why bother washing it? Huffing, he rocks back and forth on his heels. A walk sounds nice.

He glances out the window.

Yeah. A walk sounds nice.

The rain continues to pour.

* * *

On the way out, Brick threw him a suspicious look. Butch threw him a suspicious one right back. Fuckin' snooper. Creeping 'round in his room and shit, who the fuck does he think he is?

Nobody. He's nobody, Butch thinks. None of them are anybody. They're not _meant_ to be anybody but regular townies. Fat lotta good that's doing, Butch thinks. Fat lotta fucking good. He's already had a shower this morning, but the rain does good on drenching him to the core. His hair curls, wet drops dripping from the ends. When he glances in a passing window, he's the picture of Tall And Brooding. Fine by him. It's accurate, after all.

Walking through Townsville by himself makes him feel like he's trespassing. Stepping foot into territory he's no longer welcome in. If he was ever welcome. He was at one point, he knows that much. (That red door swinging open; unkempt hair, sleepy eyes greeting him. "Hey," She yawned. Then she moved aside, letting him into the Utonium residence. It wasn't the worst feeling in the world. Not the most unwanted he's ever felt.)

There's no sarcastic comments to fill in the silence. No scratchy, boyish laughter – that stupid, barking sound that made his ten year old heart fall out of rhythm. No playful punches. No knowing glances – full conversations through expression alone – no artfully arched eyebrow, no surreptitious smirk.

Just an empty space where she made him feel at home.

It's oddly exposing to walk through the streets by yourself. The rain gets in his eyes, makes his nose and cheeks blotchy. Times like this, Butch wishes he invests in an umbrella. But umbrella's are for _pussies_ , and while Butch might like such things, he most certainly _isn't_ one. Mostly. He scowls, hunching his shoulders and his hands finding homes in his pockets.

 _God_ , these people are oblivious. They shoulder past him with brightly colored umbrellas and garish looking raincoats. They natter to each other – the weather, the back to school sales...nonsense. They don't even notice that they just barged past a six foot four titan. How. Fucking. Mindless. It makes his blood boil. God, he just wants to smash their heads in. Bludgeon them. Smite them. _Beat them to bloody pulps and use their remains as Halloween decorations -_

What's the point when it's not his favorite girl coming to stop him?

Or at at least join the fun? They'd be one hell of a damn spectacle.

Butch is pathetic. Sighing, he takes a sharp corner and finds himself stalking through the mall again. His stomach clenches uncomfortably. It's a lot less full today. No last minute shop, save for a few teens milling around near the food court. God, the smell is _pungent_. Butch wants to vomit already, and he's barely taken a step into the building. The Bath&BodyWorks stares at him ominously from the right.

For what feels like years, Butch tracks wet footprints into the linoleum. He's not really sure why he came here. (Maybe to catch a glimpse of olive-green bomber jacket, or messy black hair.) Soon enough, he finds himself looking around the game shop again. Second-hand XBOX consoles look down at him from the shelves, all relatively cheap. Butch could probably spare fifty dollars if he really wanted. The video games are as lacking as before; old copies of Call Of Duty, Grand Theft Auto, Modern Warfare...boring. Things Butch already owns. He sighs through his nose. His hand comes back wet when he drags it through his hair. Dammit.

With every step, his sneakers squeak. It makes his eye twitch. Eventually he decides to leave the mall, slowing to a stop when he makes it to the escalators again. There.

"I dunno, bro's being a little...weird right now, I guess. Same for Brick." Boomer? Butch glances up, catching a glimpse of blond curls that he'd know anywhere. That same blue sweater, white collar, smart-looking raincoat. Across the floor, lingering by the old arcade. There, with him, is...Blue. The blue one – Baubles. Bubbles? Bubbles, because she's so _bubbly_. Ugh. But Butch frowns, maneuvering through the few stragglers to get closer.

What's he doing here?

Wasn't he at the cafe?

Why is Butch surprised?

Butch slows as he nears, and fiddles around in his pocket. Earphones? Check. He jams them into his ears, but holds the audio-jack in his pocket. Like Boomer is gonna believe this shit. Well – Butch purses his lips. You never know. If he's dumb enough to keep Butch's secrets from Brick, then who knows what that little brat thinks.

He continues his stroll towards the pair. Maybe he can play it off as coincidence. He's an actor, after all. Why is this any of his business? You think Butch has an answer? Think again. Maybe he's just bored. Maybe he's got nothing better to do. Maybe he wants to ruin Boomer's secret rendezvous. (Maybe he's just lonely.) Butch sniffs, hands deep in his pockets as he -

Gets shoved by one bomber jacket wearing girl. She briskly weaves through the people dawdling around. His heart jams in his chest. And...off she goes...Butch could still catch up with her. He could – y'know, breathe her name, and she'd hear it. She always does. Loyal like a dog to a whistle. If he just opens his mouth, he could call for her. Call her to him, ask her _why_ – why does she hate him, and beg for an answer that isn't, _"you abandoned me!"_

Except, Butch can't, because she's _gone_. She's stalked her way to the escalators, his original goal, and now she's trotting down them. Hurried. Still leaving...leaving...gone. Fuck. Fuck! Butch feels his hands curl into fists. Around him, the townsfolk throw him maybe a glance before continuing with their day. Ignore the six foot four teenager in the middle of the mall. It doesn't matter if he looks pathetic. It doesn't matter.

He doesn't matter.

That's...wonderful.

"Butch?" He glances up at the sound of his name. A pair of blue eyes blink up at him, an upturned mouth and concern riddled into every pour onto her face. It's not the _her_ he wants. It's Boomer's girl, so he just blinks down at her. "What." Bubbles cocks her head, a small – tiny, really, she's like a tiny little teapot – hand comes to rest on his arm. Wet arm. Wet leather. Wet. His hair drips onto her nice-looking handbag. Boomer lags behind, shifting his weight. "You good, bro?" Butch doesn't know. He wipes his cheek. Tears? no. Everything's fine, then.

"Sure," He mutters. Bubbles squeezes his arm, then smiles, "You look a little upset." The blonde turns to look in the direction he was staring. A trail of green – barely noticeable to the generic human eye – lingers at the top of the escalator. God, she'd been _speeding_. Fucking hell. Butch wipes a hand down his face, "S'nothin'." Bubbles frowns, recognition clear on her face, "...she'll come around, Butch."

And how she knows what's going on in his head, he'll never know. Lil' Blue's always been the most...empathetic. Boomer hums, clearing his throat, "You...you won't tell Brick about this, right?" Butch shakes his head, "Nah." Just another secret to the list. Just another reason to stay up at night. Just...just another thing.

He smiles bitterly, "It's whatever, bro." Butch shakes himself out of Bubbles' grasp, stalking towards the escalator. Over his shoulder, he throws, "Use a condom!" The image of his little brother turning beet red is an image he'll savor.

Off he goes.

"...Will he be okay?" Bubbles glances at Boomer. He shrugs, fiddling with his buttons, "Uh..." Another shrug. They watch his brother – still dripping, jacket still glistening – stalk back out into the rain. "Well, it's not like he's been the most okay in the first place, right?" His chuckle comes out choked. Bubbles gives him a look.

Sigh. Here he thought he'd be safe to leave the house for a couple hours. Catch up with his girlfriend, all that. Her small hand fits so well in his. She leans against him, head on his shoulder, "...You said he was acting strange?" Boomer coughs into his hand. His girl nudges him, hair bouncing as she cocks her head. "Buttercup's not been fairing too well, either."

"She hasn't?"

"Not since...y'know." Boomer tilts his head this time. He doesn't know. "Is it Butch?" Bubbles shakes her head. She retracts her hand and shuffles. "It's...nothing, it doesn't matter." Boomer doesn't remember her being able to brush off her concerns so easily, but things change, he supposes.

Shaking his head, Boomer grabs her hand again and tugs her along, "C'mon, you still like Baths and Bodyworks, right?" She giggles, nodding, "How can I not? I just bought their newest lotion." He pretends his mind doesn't go to other places. He really, really does try to not think about that. Damn you, Butch. Bad influence. Sighing, Boomer lets himself get tugged along.

Still...he can't help but feel like something is wrong. "Has -" It's a little late to ask this now, he supposes, but oh well - "Has anything... _changed_? This place feels weird, Bubbs." Bubbles glances up from her phone. People brush past them on the escalator. "...No?" Bubbles cocks her head, "Everything's still the same, babe." Right. Of course it is. Boomer chuckles, brushing lint off his jacket, "Right." Bubbles cocks her head; her eyebrows furrow in that cute way they do when she's concerned. "Why? Is something wrong?"

Boomer shakes his head, "No! No, nothing's wrong." Butch is an idiot, that's all.

* * *

Weed ain't all that, he thinks.

Ashing his blunt, he squints out into the rain. Everything's _gray_. Fog curls in from the beach – a moor at this point – and every once in a while a seagull will land on the roof and squint at him. Whatever. Butch isn't gonna let himself get judged by a _bird_.

He takes another hit. The buzz hasn't even kicked in yet. This is his third one. Brick's gonna hate him when he finds out. As if Brick doesn't already hate him, _christ_. He chuckles mirthlessly. Will he get a cold from this? Maybe. Probably. A sigh. Another drag. The smoke curls from his mouth gray. God, it's all _gray_ , isn't it? There's no fucking life in this town. Butch frowns to himself, and wedges his cigarette into the concrete. The building he's on is tall – but not the tallest. On the crummier side of Townsville; it feels like it's gonna crumble under him at any second. Wouldn't that be something.

Fuck. Is he always this emo?

Maybe it's the weed. He glances down at the crushed blunt. Still has more life in it than this damn town. "Fuck this town," He hisses. Nobody's around to hear it. Of course not. Nobody ever is anymore. (Why isn't she here?)

* * *

Brick checks the clock above the desk. Third time in the past hour he's checked the damn thing. He shifts on his bed, book in his lap. Boomer would be back by now. He's only ever out for an hour – an hour and a half at the most – but it's already edging on two hours.

He rolls his eyes. This is ridiculous. Boomer is a big boy. He can look after himself; more sociable than either of his older brothers, a charm to him that makes it hard to stay mad, and not as impulsive as Butch. Well. Equally as impulsive, but his urges are more about that new penny jacket rather than wanting to punch somebody's face in. Besides, Boomer was getting older now. Brick has the inkling of a feeling that Boomer might be the first to get a job out of the three of them at this rate. Boomer is a big boy. He can look after himself.

Butch, on the other hand?

That's a big fat fucking _no_.

So maybe he has the slightest right to worry. The last time Brick let Butch off to his own devices, half the city was demolished in an argument. Between Butch and the green Powerpuff. Buttercup. Brick frowns. Why does that feel important somehow? _Buttercup Utonium_. Brick frowns deeper. Why does...her name seem significant?

He puts his book down.

He glances at the clock.

Fourth time in an hour.

With a huff, Brick gets up from his bed and meanders out into the hall. The apartment is empty. Quiet, for once. Peaceful. And, sure, any other day of the week that would've been wonderful. But _Sunday_? Raining? The last day of summer vacation? Brick sighs, fiddling with his hair tie.

Maybe he should get his haircut. The television reflects his image back at him. No, the redhead thinks. He rocks long hair just fine. Pinkie's got longer hair, anyway. He never understood why she complained so much. Whatever. Fuck Pinkie.

He hears his youngest brother before he sees him.

Boomer's heels catch on the floor outside the apartment, tapping on the scuffed wood. Then a pause as he fumbles with the door handle, "Hi honeys, I'm home!" The blond glances around, "One honey, then." He wanders further into the living room, pulling off his scarf, "Brick – ah, there you are." Brick blinks at him once; then he pours himself a glass of water. "Productive day?" He doesn't actually care. That's what he tells himself. Boomer's days are about as interesting as listening to a girl talk about nail polish. Something you nod along to but utilize your selective hearing for.

So when his youngest brother starts droning, Brick takes time to enjoy the scenery from above the kitchen sink. It's still raining. That's why Boomer's jacket is wet. Brick sips his water.

The rain gleams on the windows of neighboring buildings, slicks over the asphalt and bounces off of the cars below in the streets. He remembers when the streets were busier – brightly colored cars, brightly colored clothes, brightly colored catastrophic creatures of calamity. Brightly colored streaks careening through the sky (callow blue, canny pink, caustic green.) "Yoohoo – Brick?"

Brick snaps his gaze from the redheaded girl down in the streets below – god, _bow_ and everything, still so fucking naïve and _childish_ – "What." He turns his back to the sink. Boomer gets an eyeful of his tensed fingers. Around his glass -

 _crack_.

The glass splinters. A large split down the middle. Both brothers pause. Deep blue eyes stare up at him; lips pursed pensively, cautious. "I'll...just take that, yeah?" Boomer carefully removes the glass from his hands and sets it in the sink.

Silence.

Brick wipes what little water spilled on his hoodie. He clears his throat – fiddles with his hair tie. "Right. Right. You were saying?" The blond stares up at him, blinking. "Right. Right." He echoes. Then clears his throat, "Right! Right, yeah, uh..."

"Somethin' 'bout bein' in Baths n' Bodyworks, right lil' bro?" Butch. Finally home. (Brick's shoulders slump in relief.) Boomer turns a vehement shade of red, "Hey! You said – you said you wouldn't _tell him_ -"

Butch holds his hands up defensively. Swagger to his step. Eyes...heavy-lidded. Smile too big and too much like a _grin_ , not a _smirk_ – dammit. Brick feels his eye twitch. "I din't say nothin', lil' man, I jus' -" Sniff, eye rub - "S'long as you din't tell 'im, I won't tell 'im, an' then s'all's good, lil' bro, everything's -" a deep sigh, Butch deflating into the couch, " _juuuuuuust_ fine." Twitch.

"You've been smoking pot again, haven't you?"

His younger brother – drenched, soaking the couch, grotty fucking shoes scuffing the couch – _shrugs_. "So what?" Brick flexes his fingers. "Deep breaths," Boomer mutters, before grabbing a spare cup from the cupboard. (Snatching off one of Wendy's _stupid fucking_ post-it notes,) the blond fills it with orange juice and strolls into the living room. "You said you were off it, that's what." Boomer perches on the coffee table, sipping his drink. Brick...Brick decides he'll see how this will pan out.

Butch stretches his arms above his head. Boomer wrinkles his nose a little – he smells like _special spice_. It's not the greatest scent to ever exist. God, it's gonna get all over the couch, too. Ugh. Maybe Brick did have a right to worry. He drums his fingers on his cup, "...Any reason you jumped back to it?" _It_ , because nobody wants to actually confront the problem here. Fuck, even beer is better than this. At least that takes longer to take affect.

His big brother blinks blearily at him, "Hm?" Boomer...has to admit, that Butch probably deserves a break. They all do. But _no_ , no, they still have to go to school and...ugh. Fuck Mojo, seriously. There's nothing fun about highschool. Maybe – oh, that...might be it.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow, bro?" Green eyes dim the slightest bit. Butch switches his gaze to the ceiling, and coughs. Bingo. Boomer leans forward, watching water slide down Butch's leather jacket. "Is that it?" He tries to keep his voice soft; he's the most negotiable, after all, out of the three of them. Diplomacy between his two blockhead brothers requires finesse. Butch finally scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, "Why're...what'd go make you think that? I ain't – ain't nervous. Of nothin'." As if to prove his point, Butch sits up and swings his legs to sit upright on the couch. Boomer nods along, "No?" Then, tentative, "...not even a little?"

Because if Butch is anything, it's sensitive.

There is no denying that, no matter what.

Butch levels him with a smirk – the effects are already wearing off. "You sure it ain't you tha's a lil' nervous, bro?" He stands up with a yawn, ruffling Boomer's hair. Dammit, he just styled it this morning. Then again – it's all wet now. A nice hot bath is probably due. Boomer watches Butch wander off into the bathroom. He glances at Brick, only to find that intense gaze already boring into him.

Dubious, he asks, "What are you gonna do?"

Brick shrugs. For a moment, he is silent, staring down into the sink. When he looks up, he looks...like Mojo when one of his projects doesn't work (after the temper tantrum.) Stern, cold, brooding. The redhead fiddles with his hair tie (a nervous habit. He _does_ have one, and Boomer's staring at it right now. His nervous habit. Deny all he wants, Brick Jojo has a nervous tick. A twitch. A tell.)

"Is there anything we can do?"

It's murmured so quietly, Boomer wonders if it was meant for his ears. So he turns to the sound system. He grabs the little remote and starts playing some tunes. Maybe a little music will lighten up this miserable hellhole.

In the bathroom, Butch picks up the sound of Anarbor playing from the living room. He leans against the door. A heavy sigh escapes him. Fuck, a shower would be nice right now. So that's what he does. Swiping the nearest towel off the rack, he drops it by the floor of the shower box and strips.

The water is warm. It feels near scalding on his skin, but not nearly hot enough. Steam quickly starts spilling from under the glass door. He hums along softly to the music, scrubbing his hair and playing with the pink loofah. He knows that the loofah is his, at least (Boomer would claim otherwise. Apparently the pink one is his, but Butch chooses to ignore that part.)

When he steps out, he grimaces. Cold tiles on wet feet is...yeugh. Not pleasant. Who fucking likes that feeling? Another question: where'd the shower mat go? He frowns. Damn fucking shower mat, going walk about. Now he has to walk around on wet feet. Yeugh. _Clammy tiles_ are not something he thought he'd have to endure in this new apartment. What's wrong with carpets? Why can't they just have carpets on the floor, that'd be nice – _all_ carpets, then there'd be no issue. Carpets, Butch thinks personally, are better than authentic wooden floorboards. Less splinters that way. He frowns. He loves carpets, but he's _not_ a carpet-muncher.

He's had a weird hate-crush on the same girl for years, after all.

Butch shuts the shower off, stepping out and patting off with a towel. He stares at the condensation over the mirror. Without thinking, he wipes his finger through it, scrawling out a brief message. It'll be gone soon, anyway. With a huff, Butch ties the towel around his waist, leaving his damp clothes in a heap by the laundry hamper. He'll drag it all down later or something.

Sighing, he steps into his bedroom. The walls could use some decorating. Sure, he's got all his awesome posters up, the few glow-in-the-dark stickers and some other crap, but...photos would be nice. He used to have a bunch but...

Well, Brick's been on a hunch lately. He's not sure if putting them up is a good idea. And Butch has already fucked up enough this week as it is. That's all he ever does, isn't it? He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

Fuck, maybe Boomer was right about that whole _nervous_ thing.

* * *

Boomer deems the rest of the day a rainy day in. He occasionally texts back and forth with Bubbles – when Brick isn't over his shoulder – but there's...something off. Whenever he tries to ask about her sisters, she sort of...changes the conversation. But he can understand that there are boundaries. They've only been back a week, after all. Bubbles is more forgiving than her sisters in that way. So, yes, there are things she probably doesn't feel comfortable talking about. That's all well and good, except when their conversation takes a dip like this:

Boomer: ugh big bros need to have a feelings jam istg

 _Bubbles: lol same for my sisters probably_

Boomer: …probably?

 _Bubbles: so what's goin on w ur bros?_

'Probably'. It's like she's not even sure. It puts a bad taste in his mouth. All Boomer's heard about Blossom, over the past week is 'nag nag nag, yknow?' and then almost _nothing_ about Buttercup. It's a mild cause for concern. But Boomer gets it. Sometimes personal life isn't something you want to immediately share after a seven-year separation. So he lets it be.

When he's not texting Bubbles – his lovely, lovely, somewhat tentative girlfriend – he's chilling out on the couch. He hears Butch shut off the shower, pad off into his bedroom. He gets up to relieve himself.

It's not until he's washing his hands that he notices the mirror. In Butch's sloppy, awfully left-slanted writing is 'sorry for the'. It's quickly dissipating. Boomer wonders what he's sorry for. Though, knowing his big brother, he was probably banking on the message being gone by the time anybody gets to it. Dumbass.

With a sigh, Boomer wanders out into the hall. He stares down at Butch's door. He's such a child, sometimes. He's got his old caution stickers and that _beware the dog_ sign he stole from their old next-door neighbor. Or more specifically, _cuidado con el perro_. Since their old next-door neighbor was back in Cuba.

Maybe a feelings jam wouldn't be so bad. Boomer purses his lips, before treading lightly towards Butch's door. He listens for a long moment. A zipper, ruffled fabric, can tab being pressed. _Pssshhht_. Annnd he's gone straight for the beer. Dammit. Boomer knocks non-too-lightly on the door, "Open up, bro." He hears his brother scoff from inside, "S'not like it's locked, curly fries." Curly fries. At least he's sobering the slightest bit. The beer wont do much, now that he thinks about it.

Boomer steps into Butch's room. He doesn't think he's actually looked around since they moved in. All his dumb rock posters are up, that stupid gray and green bedding, cluttered desk. Strewn beer cans by the wastebasket. Newly opened on in his brother's hands, one resting unopened on the windowsill.

And, true to fashion, Butch has his window wide open. He always has. Something about the wind and all that soothes him; helps him sleep. God knows Butch hasn't been doing a lot of that lately. Double dammit.

Butch himself lounges in his creaky swivel chair. In the dim, his eyes could be mistaken for glowing. But no, they're just glowering. Clearly a little bitter to be forced off his high. His eyes aren't as red, at least. Boomer shuts the door behind him, moving to hop up onto the windowsill. He takes the last beer can. "What do you want?" Butch sighs.

The blond shrugs, "Just checking on you, s'all." Butch hums tunelessly, "Right." He tips his head back on the chair. After a moment of quiet, his big brother lowers his gaze back to him, "I'm fine, Boomer."

He shrugs again, taking a sip of his beer. Yeugh. He hates beer. "You...you don't seem it. Kinda been crabby since – well, since the hotel." Butch shrugs back at him, "Yeah, well." No answer. Another shrug, before Boomer notices that Butch is staring past him.

Here's the thing about a moody Butch:

His eyes take on this weird kind of flinty quality, and they dull to this bottle-green sort of hue. His whole face sort of... _grays_ , turns morose, and anything that comes out of his mouth can sound mean if you listen to it a certain way. Boomer isn't all that used to it. When Butch is like this, he flies off someplace and comes back like it never happened. The rain doesn't usually stop him. Maybe it's because it's _Townsville_ ; there's not exactly anywhere for him to fly off to. But Butch like this is like trying to navigate through the woods at night.

Funny; Butch is pretty good at that.

"Don't worry 'bout me, yeah?" Butch huffs. Boomer glances up at him. That doesn't sound all that reassuring. "But -" His brother drains the rest of his beer and chucks the can on the floor. He slaps on a smirk – it might work for Brick, but he knows better – and shrugs, "Dude, chill. I'm muy bueno -" God, it's never good when Butch whips out his Spanish like that - "No need to worry."

The blond watches the older boy shuffle around his room. Dragging his leather jacket over his closet door, drags out another jacket. This one is more of an outdoor jacket; it's got a fluffy hood on it, waterproof. Green, of course. "Where are you going?" Boomer asks.

Butch shucks on his jacket and wedges on his gross, ratty, candy-caked sneakers, "Out." Annnd this is when Butch flies away. When he comes back, it'll be like nothing happened. It'll be like he wasn't sad for a minute. He doesn't try to stop Butch when he hooks a leg over the windowsill. With a half-assed, two-finger salute, Butch is gone in a trail of luminescent green. He sighs.

Boomer wishes they could talk like normal people for once.

Brick's words come to mind, "We aren't normal, Boomer."

Brick calls from the living room, "Did that fucker just fly out?" Nodding, Boomer drags his feet into the living room, "Yeah. Yeah, he did." Brick's piercing eyes give him a once over, "You don't like beer." Shaking his head, the youngest brother offers him the can. He deflates into the couch. The one Butch hadn't been laying on.

The redhead takes the can without preamble. "Why were you drinking beer?" Boomer shrugs, "Dunno." Brick rolls his eyes, draining half the can in one go. "You dunno," He sighs, shaking his head. The redhead puts his book down and stands up from his beanbag by the bookshelf. "Do you know where he's flown off to?" The blond shakes his head. If he'd asked, he'd know. If he'd managed to actually get his big brother to talk, then he'd know.

He watches Brick wander around. Almost pacing, but not quiet. He fiddles with his cellphone. Boomer scoffs to himself. Brick's never gotten more than a damn flip-phone. Never needed much else, Boomer supposes. He doesn't use it much, but you _know_ you're in trouble if Brick so much as texts you. Otherwise he doesn't care.

Boomer frowns, "...Hey boss, can I...ask you something?" Brick hums lowly in question. He clears his throat, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, "Do – I..." A sigh. "If...we were to...make friends with the girls again -"

"Boomer," Brick warns. He winces, trudging on, "I'm just saying! We'll be interacting with them a lot, an' we can't avoid them forever -" Brick's heavy sigh cuts him off, "Boomer, you know what I've said about this." The blond grimaces. Still, if he isn't as stubborn as his brothers, then he's not their brother; "You don't really think they're gonna be _that_ vengeful, do you? Besides..." Fuck, he shouldn't go there.

Too late. Brick raises an eyebrow, "Besides?"

Whatever. Boomer's never been good at keeping secrets. "We...I mean, I kinda-sorta-maybe am...friends...with Bubbles?" Silence. Cold, choking silence. He stands up from the couch, turning to meet Brick's blank stare, "And! And I mean – c'mon, Brick, just because you didn't leave on good terms with Blo -"

"Don _'t_."

(Boomer pretends he doesn't immediately think of Butch's low, dangerous, " _Don't_ " when Brick snarls at him. His brothers have more in common than they think. And one thing, for certain, is how fucking _intimidating_ they can be. A back and forth power play that neither will admit to.) Boomer swallows thickly, "...Don't?"

For a moment, Brick is frozen. Then he slumps against the kitchen sink, dropping his head, "Don't say her name." Boomer clears his throat, nodding. He doesn't say anything. Brick doesn't say anything, either.

"Why are you even asking me, Boomer?"

Boomer glances up at Brick, questioning.

Wiping a hand down his face, the redhead narrows his eyes at him, "You've already gone behind my back -" Okay, that's not fair, "Hey! Just because you can't face the tru -" He snaps his mouth shut when Brick stares him down. "Enough," Brick decides. "You have fun with Baubles or whatever -"

"It's _Bubbles_."

"Whatever, brat."

Both brothers huff. Brick rolls his eyes, before swiping his book off the coffee table and stalking down the hall, "Tell Butch I want to talk to him when he gets in." Boomer thinks that Brick should know by now that Butch won't be back 'til morning. In fact, he might just join him. He shoots a text to his big brother before slumping down onto the couch.

Boomer: where did u go dude?

When he doesn't get an immediate reply, Boomer starts channel surfing. Not that there's much on, really. Except the news, which, conveniently is an interview with one of the girls. He turns the volume on low and strains his ears to listen. Just in case Brick is listening. Asshole.

It's Blossom, sitting in a stylish armchair beside a journalist, who keeps jotting things down on his notebook. Boomer frowns. Her hair looks a little shorter than he last saw it. Not by much, but like...a trim. Looks nice, he thinks. "- _Yes, of course_!" Blossom smiles politely, " _It's our top priority to look after you all._ " She seems to have mastered that doting look as she glances out to the audience in the conference room. " _It's quite literally what we was born to do_." Her chuckle feels rehearsed.

The journalist, Ronalds, he thinks (he's seen him somewhere before, Boomer's not sure where,) nods along, "Of course, of course, I wouldn't expect anything less of you, Ms Blossom." Ugh. Ronalds glances up at Blossom, grinning somewhat cheekily, " _Now, how about we delve a little deeper_?" There's a dubious look on the oldest puff's face, but she agrees all the same. Boomer wonders if she has much of a choice.

A murmur of agreement comes from the audience. " _Okay_ ," Ronalds smiles, " _So we've had reports come in of...some old friends of yours returning to Townsville._ " Blossom visibly blanches, before schooling her expression. She's so painfully polite that Boomer feels sick. " _Is that so_?" She chuckles.

 _"It is,"_ Ronalds presses, " _What are your thoughts on that?_ "

Blossom takes a breath, thinking through her answer, " _Well..._ "

" _None of your fuckin' business, **asshole**!_" A familiar voice yells from the audience. The camera messily swerves to get a shot of Blossom's sister at the back. Boomer feels a smile rise onto his face without his permission. Of course she'd be there to keep the questions on track. Just like her. She towers over a majority of the audience, and that's not much of a surprise either. Boomer hasn't seen much of Buttercup since they've arrived, but that brief brush with Butch earlier today shows her standing at maybe six foot two.

Ronalds clears his throat, while the camera zooms in (from another angle) on Blossom rubbing her temple. Pointedly, she clears her throat, " _While my sister could have approached that more **tactfully** , I do agree that I'll reserve my comments on that subject._"

After that, there's not much going on. Mundane things – juicy details on Blossom's latest relationship, some updates on the Professor's work on the apparent 'monster barrier'. So that's an interesting little tidbit of information. " _It's still a little bit in progress, but monster attacks have gone down a good eighty-five percent so far, which is a considerable achievement_." Damn right. Boomer smiles.

Boomer's phone vibrates. He glances down at it, finding that Butch has finally text him back. Half an hour later. The blond listens out for Brick first, but only hears the rustling of papers from the redhead's room. Probably scheming away his frustrations.

 _Butch: why? you plannin on crashin my pity party?_

Boomer: maybe

Once again, his brother leaves him hanging. So Boomer turns back to the television. It looks like Buttercup's yelled something again, since the two different camera angles keep alternating between Blossom and Buttercup. The questions only seem to be getting more and more personal. What a crock of bullshit. Boomer feels discontent churn in the bottom of his stomach. He wishes he was there. He'd be making a scene, too, with Buttercup. Yelling shit and telling them to fuck off.

How is Blossom's relationships any of their business? Why does it matter what her grades are like, or who she's taking to the dance this year? School's not even started yet – not 'til tomorrow. What fucking bullshit. He has enough time to grab himself a glass of water from the kitchen before his big brother replies;

 _Butch: hangin by in n out_

Of course he is. Where else would Butch go to brood? Boomer sighs. He could go for a burger right now. One more glance to the television shows that the interview with Blossom is coming to a close. Who knows, they might head to In-N-Out too. Boomer stomps down whatever hope rises. He'd like to catch up with the girls again. Don't get him wrong – Bubbles is lovely, of course, but she doesn't...seem to be all that connected to her sisters anymore. He'd just like to see how they're doing.

He missed them. All of them.

Sighing, Boomer tugs his jacket back on, wrapping a scarf around his neck. It's still raining outside. God knows what kind of cold Butch is gonna catch. He slips on his shoes, "Later boss!" Then he's out the door.

* * *

When Boomer steps into the establishment, his face is flushed and he's painting. Even flying didn't save him from getting _soaked_. Again. He spots Butch almost immediately. In the back corner at a table for two, avoiding looking up at all costs. Boomer whistles to himself as he strolls into the joint. "Butch," He breathes, slumping into the seat across from his brother.

Butch glances up at him. He blinks heavily. Boomer cocks his head with a smile, "You order anything yet?" His big brother shakes his head, "Nah. Jus' got here when you text, so. Figured I'd wait." He smiles appreciatively, "Thanks Butch." His brother shrugs, "Whatever."

"What do you want?" Butch then asks, readying to get out of his seat. "Uh – just a hamburger, bro. Cola." Nodding, the older boy saunters off towards the counter.

Fuck, Boomer's missed this place.

The greasy smell, the gross bleach lingering on the floors...he loved hanging out here after school. God, there's the eight-seater booth, too. Still got that bubblegum under it that Buttercup would always leave there. The stain from when Brick made Blossom get ketchup all over herself. He finds himself smiling gently. Outside the window is the mute colors of sunset beyond the clouds. Purplish-red mingling with the gray, through the haze of the rain. It's evening time now, surely. Boomer doesn't know what time specifically, but...round about now used to be the girls' curfew. He chuckles to himself.

"What's so funny, lil' bro?" Butch drawls. Boomer shrugs, "Nothing. Just...thinking." Butch follows his line of sight. It's interesting, the blond thinks, how Butch's face softens ( _saddens_ ) as he stares at the old eight-seater booth. "Yeah," Butch mutters, "...memories, huh?"

"Something like that," Boomer agrees.

"Something like that," Butch echoes.

They sit in silence for a while. It's not as weird as it was earlier. Boomer can see that Butch's high is gone all together, as well as the little buzz he might have gotten from the beer. Now he's here, hanging out in memory lane. Not that Boomer can blame him.

"You see the news?" The blond finds himself asking. Butch points to the little low-quality television hooked up on the counter. It looks like Blossom's interview is finally wrapping up, now. He nods, before watching a girl come over with a tray full of their order. She smiles at them; it looks false, "Three double-doubles, two sides of fries, root beer and cola?" Nodding, Butch takes the tray from her, "Thanks, muñeca (doll.)" The girl smiles and giggles the slightest bit, winking as she walks back to the counter. Boomer scoffs, "Not your type."

Butch shrugs, taking two of the double-doubles from the tray. Of course. Boomer takes his cola, sipping idly as he glances out the window. It's definitely darker in the few minutes that have passed. The streetlights are starting to flicker on; dull yellow or orange colors.

"Why'd you want out, anyway?" Boomer looks at his big brother, "Hm?" He's much more docile now, Boomer thinks. He always is after some time to cool off. "Did something happen with Red?" He shrugs, "I...I told him I was making good with Bubbles again."

Butch eyes him for a minute. Then nods, "Right." He takes one of the hamburgers out of their wrapping, chomping into it with little grace. "Ffo wha' mhappn'd fen?" Boomer shoots him an unimpressed look. His big brother swallows, clearing his throat, "How'd that go?" The blond shrugs, "To be honest?" Butch nods. "He was sort of a dick about it." Butch rolls his eyes, "Tell me 'bout it."

He gripes, picking at his fries, "Just because he and Blossom had a falling out before we left -" Butch's head whips to stare out the window - "Doesn't mean the rest of us can't get along." His big brother nods slightly, "I get you, lil' bro." Boomer follows his line of sight. Out in the parking lot, there's a pink and white striped umbrella bobbing through the rain. A lazy trail of glowing green keeps circling the umbrella, until the pair step into the light.

Blossom and Buttercup.

Boomer finds himself smiling. Blossom keeps trying to hold the umbrella out for the both of them, despite Buttercup floating just out of her range each time. He chuckles to himself. Butch remains silent; transfixed. If Boomer looks hard enough, he can see a desperately desolate kind of emotion in his eyes. But it's gone quicker than he can blink, and Butch returns to downing his root beer.

Buttercup is snickering breathlessly when they step into the joint. She's soaked to the bone, but her throaty laughter is unmistakable. Butch grew up with the sound, after all. Her dark hair sticks to her face, what little parts of her neck it reaches...it gleams in the bleak overhead lights. Fuck, Butch remembers going to the beach with her, rough housing in the surf and damn near drowning each other in the tide. Grief shivers down his spine. Though, what he's grieving for, he doesn't really know.

Blossom shakes out her umbrella before letting the door swing shut. She doesn't look nearly as pleased with herself as her sister does, but a fond little smile plays on her face. "You'll get a cold like that," She chides. Why doesn't Brick chide Butch like that? The oldest puff seems smart enough to have at least put on a coat.

His girl, on the other hand, has her bomber jacket tied around her waist. Her shirt – an old graphic tee, cartoon slice of pizza on the front – clings to her frame; it's not like her cut-off jeans did much to keep her dry, either. Dumb girl, he thinks. Dumb fucking girl, but it's never been a contest as to who's smarter between them. Butch feels an ache somewhere between his stomach and his sternum. Maybe it's the cold. (Maybe he's lonely.)

Boomer nudges him under the table, "We should invite them to sit with us." His kid brother smiles; it's genuine. It seems like...a genuinely good idea to the blond. Butch wonders how Boomer isn't fraying at the seams right now. Still, Boomer's always been the more sociable out of the three of them.

Yeah; Butch and Brick certainly aren't winning any 'Most Friends' awards.

"It'd be nice to finally catch up with them," His little brother reasons. Butch raises an eyebrow, murmuring around a sip of root beer, "Don't you hear 'nough from Bubbles?" At that, the blond frowns. Then clears his throat, "Hey, Blossom!" Dammit.

Butch pretends he doesn't damn near crush his drink. The redhead looks over, eyebrows raised high in question. Her astute eyes zero in on them almost immediately. She smiles pleasantly, "Boomer!" A glance at him, "Butch, hello!" It isn't lost on Butch how Buttercup tenses up. And doesn't look in their direction. He pretends that doesn't cut him deep.

Blossom parts from Buttercup; her smile isn't the biggest they've ever seen, but she seems happy to see them, "How are you?" Boomer grins, and conversation picks up. The yap back and forth. How long they've been here, the interview – blah blah blah – Butch doesn't particularly care. Though, Pinkie's looking nicer than they last saw each other. Probably dressed up for the interview. Under her penny coat is a white blouse and a pale pink, knee length skirt. She's even wearing modest heels. Butch doesn't remember her being into heels when they were younger. Hell, _he_ wasn't into heels when they were younger, so. None of them were.

Where is this going again?

Butch doesn't like heels.

There's laughter. He glances up just in time for Blossom to turn her attention to him. Now, they've never been the best of friends, but she sorta acted like an estranged older sister to him back when. So he's not too surprised when she rests a friendly hand on his shoulder, "It's nice to finally see you again." A lady-like snort, "Even if you were sort of rude the first time." Butch shrugs, slaps on his smirk, "Well, you know how Red is. S'not like I can exactly stray from a plan, y'know?"

Blossom's smile turns a little sharp, but the air remains light. "Of course, of course," She nods. Then pauses, "...Would you two like to come sit with us?" Boomer answers before Butch can weasel out of it, " _Duh_! Like old times." Almost in sync, he and the older girl nod, "Like old times."

The three of them migrate to that old, beat up eight-seater booth. He and his little brother sit on one side, Blossom alone on the other. Butch sits on the edge. Buttercup probably will too, next to Blossom. Fuck, Buttercup. She seems to be lingering as much as possible by the counter. She'll probably wait until their food is brought out and bring it back.

Butch sets his and Boomer's tray on the table. He drains the rest of his root beer. Blossom catches Butch's eye, "...She's a little strained right now." Boomer snorts, "Looked like it on the TV." The redhead rolls her eyes, "She doesn't like the interviews. Thinks they're a little too nosey." Butch raises his empty cup, "I'm with her there."

The brief quiet they fall into is...companionable. Butch misses this. If he feels under his seat, he'll feel the old wads of used nicotine packets he used to wedge under there. God, good times.

Eventually, though, Buttercup strolls over to their table. Butch wants to her meet his gaze. He wants to stare into those eyes, like they did god knows when. It feels like eons ago, but she was on the roof just last night, right? Fuck if he knows. Buttercup sets the tray down a little harsher than necessary. "Careful," Blossom sighs, before thanking her sister and taking her drink and side of fries from the tray. Buttercup slumps into the booth. She doesn't say a word, only pulling out her phone and boredly scrolling. Butch wonders what's so important on her phone that she can't just talk like a normal human being.

"Hi Buttercup," Boomer tries. Sharp eyes cut to him immediately. She looks oddly like Red, Butch thinks. And that's enough to piss him off the slightest bit. Her eyebrows are furrowed, eyes narrowed the slightest bit. (It used to be funny seeing her like that when they were younger. He'd call her bro just to piss her off. Now though? Butch isn't sure he even wants to try.) "Blue," She acknowledges. The way Buttercup bites into her double-double is something short of savage.

Blossom tuts at her, throws her a look. Boomer easily picks up conversation. School, clubs, sports. Stuff Butch should probably be listening to. He digs into his second double-double.

Buttercup doesn't even look at him.

She'll occasionally grunt or hum if his brother asks her something. Fuck, she even smiled a little when she told him about the baseball team she wants to try for this year. But she doesn't. look. at. him. Dammit.

He kicks her lightly at one point. Just to get some sort of rise out of her – because, y'know, if she doesn't want to socialize like a normal person then he doesn't want to either, that's how it's always been – and she just continues to scroll on her phone.

Eventually, Blossom grips her hand. It's a weird interaction. "Buttercup," She hisses, "It's _rude_ to be on your phone at the table." The way she says it is sickly sweet. Boomer shifts uncomfortably next to him. Buttercup doesn't even flinch, "That's cool, Bloss. I gotta go."

And just like that, she stands up and takes her root beer with her on the way out. Butch has never felt so fucking dismissed before. Blossom huffs, patting down her ruffled hair, "Sorry about her." Boomer clears his throat, smiling, "Uh, yeah no, don't worry about it. Must've been a rough day, huh?" Pinkie shrugs, twirling her hair. Bitterly, she mutters, "...Something like that."

Butch watches out the window. Out in the rain, he can see Buttercup trying to use her phone. He wonders why she's still here, if she had to go. Maybe she's...stalling.

Before he knows it, he's storming out into the rain after her, "The fuck was that, Buttercup?" It's not exactly like he can call her any of her nicknames anymore. Something tells him they're not that close now. Buttercup glowers at him through the rain. She sneers, "The fuck do you want, asshole?" Butch scoffs, "Oh that's rich, considering the stunt you pulled in there -"

"Don't you get on me about _stunts_ , Jojo -"

Oh, so they're on last name basis now?

Fine. Butch can do that. (It's not like it feels like she just stabbed him or something, god no.) "Well, _Utonium_ , 'least you could do was stick it out." She doesn't have an immediate response for that. Weird. The silence hangs heavy where a quip should be, but...nothing.

They stand there, snarling at each other. Butch just started to dry, too. The girl – fuck, she had a growth spurt, huh? - _his_ girl, grits her teeth, "What do you want, Butch." It's not a question. He huffs, "Why'd you up an' leave like that if you're _clearly_ not heading anywhere any time soon?"

He knows the answer.

He just...wont admit it.

God, and she's just _standing_ there. Scuffing her stupid chucks into the asphalt, arms crossed defensively. She wont meet his eyes (she always met his eyes, was never afraid – _who is this girl?_ ) "I gotta go," Buttercup murmurs. Butch finds himself grabbing her wrist before she can depart, "Don't you fucking do that."

In the dark, her eyes glow. Like last night. Like always. She stuns him, like that. "Well one of us has gotta," She spits at him. "'Sides," This part is so quiet, so bitter, he can barely hear it: "Not like you had much of a problem doing it, right?" _Ouch_. He recoils. "You _know_ I -"

"No, I _don't_ know."

Buttercup steps away from him. She takes a breath. He finds his own caught. She can't look at him; he feels vile. The silence is suffocating. Butch has never thought that he'd be victim to this kind of awkwardness before. "Bye, Butch."

Then she's gone.

* * *

Boomer gives him ten minutes. He wonders if maybe it's for his own sake, rather than Butch's. But then there's a pink and white umbrella held over him by a significantly shorter girl, and his little brother's on his other side, nudging him, "You good, bro?"

"Sure," Butch breathes. Sure, because why not? Why not just be _good_ for now? It's...better than anything else. Blossom rests a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, though her tone is dry and unimpressed, "I can't say she'll come around, Butch, but I can say you can expect more of that in future." Then she bids the two goodnight and starts her walk home.

The brothers stay there a little longer. Dripping, Boomer looks up at him, "...Will you be alright?" Again, Butch sighs, "Sure." Blue eyes bore into him. Boomer is cloaked in that damn orange light again, from the streetlamps. He can't help but feel deja vu. "I'm..." They're not good at this, they're _boys_ , dysfunctional ones at that, but Boomer will never cease to amaze him: "I'm here if you want to talk, bro."

Butch just nods.

They walk home.

"...How'd things go with Buttercup?" Butch can't deign that with an answer. So he doesn't. Boomer is ever insistent, though. He nudges Butch lightly, "Butch?" The concern is palpable. He shrugs, eyes ahead of him, "How do you think it went, lil' bro?" He sounds more defeated than angry.

The blond sighs softly, patting his arm, "She'll come 'round." Blossom couldn't guarantee that. Her older sister, her leader, her top of the pyramid...her control...even she couldn't be certain whether Buttercup would come around. So his brother making that promise means nothing. Shrugging Boomer off, Butch stalks off further in the dark, "Tell Brick I wont be home 'til late." There's a sigh, before Boomer replies, "Fine." There's that familiar crackle of energy, before a blue streak zips past him and a rush of air. Butch watches his little brother fly away.

He doesn't know where he wanders off to, really. It's this old secluded part of Townsville. He and – _her_ used to come kick 'round cans in this dump. It's mostly all decimated; the primary area where the girls would try to divert a fight to. Less damage when the area's already abandoned.

In the night, it's haunting. Long shadows are drawn by decapitated structures, slick and glistening from the rain. If it weren't for his enhanced vision, Butch isn't sure if he'd be able to make it around without falling. Still, here's better than home right now. Fuck Brick, seriously. Butch is a big boy; he can do whatever the fuck he wants, whether Brick's there to breathe down his neck or not.

("Love's for losers," Fifteen year old Brick scoffed. Butch watched Boomer slam his girly magazine down on the table, hissing, "Well maybe _you're_ the loser, Brick!" And, fifteen year old Butch disappeared into his room, plagued with images of the girls. One girl in particular. Lime and lemon popsicles...summer sun...ocean tides. Love's for losers, alright. Maybe Butch is a loser.) Fuck Brick, seriously. He's not the boss of Butch. Hasn't been for a while, now. _Fuck. Brick._

A can gets kicked across the concrete. Butch watches the metal catch in the few flickering streetlamps around. He sighs, hands deep in his pockets. Why is he even here? Nobody else is. She isn't. Another can scatters. He glances down at his feet. Then looks around the general facility.

There are a lot more cans here than he remembers.

They aren't Coca-Cola brand anymore, either. He spies Coors, Bud Light, Budweiser...cheap beer brands. Odd. Alarming – maybe someone else has taken over Butch and Buttercup's old hang-out spot. That doesn't seem likely, though. Townsville's residents are too materialistic to appreciate authenticity when they see it. Take Butch's little hideout, for example. He looks around.

He hears music. It's not especially loud, but it's familiar. Neck Deep. He grimaces. Of course it is – of _course_ it's Neck Deep, in the _rain_ , in this _specific_ location, after a _crappy_ scenario...of course she's here. Of course.

Where else would she fucking go?

Old habits die hard, or something.

" _And as the world spins on its axis, seems like it's brought me back here to say 'oh god, not this again'_ -" Butch sighs as the music continues. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to leave – this place is equally his as it is hers...no matter how much it feels like it isn't.

So he strolls around, stepping around cluttered cans and and dimly following the music. It echoes, he notices. So she's most likely somewhere deeper in the respite. Maybe keeping his distance is better. Butch lets out a sigh. The rain is leaving chills on the back of his neck. It's not like he's wearing his leather jacket either, so this one's soaked. But things could be worse, he supposes. Who the fuck is he kidding – this feels like his lowest low.

Eventually, he finds her. Silhouette curled up under the incline of some decimated house. The music plays from her phone, protected from the rain under the slight shelter. Buttercup doesn't notice him at first. Good. Butch...honestly isn't sure if he wants her to.

He takes a seat, though, only a pile of rubble away. But she's not actively looking for him, and he's not actively trying to be seen, so it's okay. Butch finds himself reclining against a rotting support beam that offers little to no shelter. It's fine, he thinks. This is fine. Fuck, how pathetic can he get?

His best friend, barely a couple hundred feet away, and he's here hiding behind the chunks of drywall. The old battleground they're sitting in groans and creaks with the change of the wind. The rain hits harder. Still, Butch decides, this is better than going home. Butch lets his eyes fall shut. Like this, with the music playing, he can almost pretend that things are okay. She's beside him, chugging down cola and smacking gum louder than anything he's ever heard. A quiet day, maybe. Sun low, Buttercup's enjoying the silence. For once, so is he. It's normal. Maybe they had visited In-N-Out just before they got here, or there's intent to visit the joint later.

He can pretend; just for a moment.

Until the music stops and she calls,

"Why the hell are you following me?"

Bitter, Butch yells back, "Pretty sure I have every right to be here as you do, sunshine." There's a scuffle of her sneakers against the concrete. He made her jump. Maybe he's getting better at this sneaking thing; it's obvious that she thought he was further away than he was. Or, now that he peaks through the gaps of wall, it might be the lack of sleep that's trying to drag her eyelids shut. Dammit. Who is this girl? Where is his Buttercup?

"Yeah right," She scoffs, "You lost that privilege when -" She doesn't finish. It's like her breath catches, like she can't keep speaking. Butch feels a pang of guilt shudder down his spine. Or the rain. Either one. Both? Both.

"...When?" He knows when. He fucking knows, but Butch must be some sort of masochist. She snarls. It rattles through the hollowed structures like something guttural. Despite the dour mood, excitement whispers inside him. That dark little part of him. Butch stomps it down, and forces himself to close his eyes again.

Buttercup is so quiet, he barely hears what she murmurs next, "You're a dick, y'know that?" It's too soft to have much bite to it. He lets himself quiet down to the same weariness, "Takes one to know one." Butch means that. He's pretty sure he means that. (He doesn't mean that.)

After a minute, a can comes sailing through the air. It hits him square on the side of the head. He hisses, crunching the can in his grip. "Real mature, Buttercup." She scoffs, "Runnin' away ain't that mature either, y'know." Ouch. That hits something deep in him. _Fuck_. "Can we talk? I can ex -"

"I don't care, Butch."

"Of course you don't."

No response. Butch grits his teeth, willing down the flash of frustration. The sound of her standing up echoes under the rain. Her sneakers scuff on the concrete, and her huff is damn near _palpable_. Butch sits up, leaning forward to look around his little barrier. She stands there, swinging her arms. Pocketing her phone, she kicks off from the ground. Her green energy is nearly blinding after so long moping in the dark.

Buttercup easily catches his eyes. They look dull, now. He's gone and fucked things up again, hasn't he? That's...all he ever does now. Butch slumps forward more, angling his head to stare back at her. The rain makes her look miserable. She seems to be looking for something. Again. She doesn't find what she's looking for. Again. God, Butch can't be anything anyone wants, can he? No, he's just a mess. Buttercup drops her gaze.

"Bye, Butch."

And she's gone.

Cyclical, right?

* * *

Boomer's waiting for him when he stumbles through the door. "God, you're _soaked_ ," He worries. Butch shrugs, sniffling. He wipes his face, "S'fine." His little brother gives him a dubious look, "Bro..."

Shaking his head, Butch hops over the back of the couch and sprawls out. The blond sighs, "Boss isn't gonna like you getting the couch wet twice in one day." Insert sexual joke here about how _wet_ he can get something. With a yawn, the older boy shrugs, "Brick can suck it."

"I heard that, you know." Gets murmured through the walls.

Butch nods, "You were meant to." Brick doesn't respond.

"Hey, bro?" He glances at Boomer, eyebrow raised. Boomer shuffles a little, where he's perched on the coffee table, "...Where did you go? After we split up, I mean." Butch looks away from him, "Someplace." Blue eyes gaze at him, "Someplace." Butch nods. Boomer ruffles his hair, sighing, "Right." Butch nods again, "Right." His little brother nudges him with his foot. He looks concerned. "Have...you noticed the... _off_ feeling?"

Boy, has he. Butch hums, "Well...were you expecting everything to stay the same?" Abashed, Boomer glances off to the side, "A little." Butch moves to sit up; muddy, candy-caked shoes scuffing the couch. "Bubbles is acting...different." He watches Boomer hug himself. The boy looks like he's had a shower since he got back; his hair's dry again, with the volume he gets only from his conditioner. He's in his pajamas, too. Man, pajamas sound nice right now. His soft sweatpants...sweater...fluffy socks...yeah. Pajamas sound nice.

Sensing that Boomer needs to talk, he gently prods, "How? Y'sure she's not just – y'know – growing up a lil'?" Boomer shakes his head, frowning. "I...I dunno, but she's...acting weird. Ish." Then he's rushing, stammering, "Uh – not – not that it's _bad_ , or anything, I mean – but...it's definitely...not normal?" Deep down, Boomer will always be the silly little boy with a crush, Butch thinks.

He snorts, "Helpful."

Boomer glowers at him, "I mean...like, I'll as her how her sisters are doing -" He's getting the feeling Boomer's avoiding her name, but it's not like Butch is delicate - "And she'll just...sound really unsure? I don't – I dunno."

Butch blinks. Then shrugs, "Probably nothin' to worry about, lil' bro." Blue eyes try to peer into his soul. It doesn't work. Never does. Butch is a master of deflection, you see. "'Sides, maybe they've finally just sorta...grown apart. It's not uncommon or anything." He and his brothers are a prime example of this.

It's interesting watching Boomer appear haunted by the notion. "But – they're...they're our _girls_ , bro! They're not _supposed_ to be split like that." 'Our girls'. That's what Butch gets stuck on. Our girls... _his_ girl. His girl hates him. God, she fucking hates his guts – it's like they're back to being five years old, tearing up the town again. Butch frowns. "Things change, lil' bro," He muses. The argument is weak, even to his own ears.

Boomer stares down at him, "Seriously?" Big blue eyes, disbelieving, "That's your excuse? _Things change_?" Indignant, the blond continues, "What kind of crap were you smoking earlier? It isn't like you to just brush things off." Butch sighs, scratching his cheek, "Boom, I'm tired. Come yell at me about it later, okay?"

With that, he stands, and trudges down the hall to his room. He stalls just outside of Brick's door. If he listens, he can hear Brick listening back. He scoffs, "Night, Red." Through the door, he hears, "Don't call me that." Yawning, Butch shrugs, "Sure thing, Red." And things fall back into place. Boomer's whining carries from the living room, though it doesn't take long for the kid to placate himself with some bad TV opera. Figures. He's flouncy like that, Butch thinks.

When his bedroom door shuts behind him, he is...officially...alone with his thoughts. What a fun playground that is. Butch rubs his neck. No, his eyes don't stray to the bottom of his closet. No, he doesn't feel his fingers itch – _itch_ , not _twitch_ – to tear open those letters. No, he doesn't wish that conversation with Buttercup had gone better. Except he does. He does all those things, because what is Butch if not a masochist? A melodramatic, miserable masochist.

His room is dark. Has been since they got here, he supposes. Fuck, this place needs a clean-up. The most he does tonight is pick up the beer cans and drop them in the wastebasket.

Though, his bed doesn't look the most inviting tonight. Maybe Butch should have rationed that beer better. He could really use a drink right now. He pats his (damp) pockets; no dice. Right. Okay. That's fine; no smokes tonight, either. He'll have to stock up for school tomorrow.

Oh shit.

School.

Dammit.

An unattractive snort makes its way out. Prepare for failure this year, he thinks. Brick's gonna be mad when that first report card comes in. He frowns. Brick's always mad at him. Not without reason, of course – Butch has given him plenty of reasons. Maybe he shouldn't. Give reasons, that is. Brick would be less mad, Butch would be a slightly less bad person.

Who is he kidding, trying to change like this? Why bother? Butch knows he's only gonna get roped in by Mojo again once his _required education_ has met the rota. His smile is humorless. This is great. This is. Wonderful. Note the sarcasm.

"Dear Princess Celestia," He mutters, "Today I have learned I'm a shitty human being -" Except he's not quite _human_ , is he? "Scratch that. Today I've learned that I'm a shitty person who can't interact with anything without fucking it up." Through the walls, he hears Brick grumble, "Why the fuck are you quoting My Little Pony?" Butch shoots back, "Why the _fuck_ do you know it's My Little Pony?" No response. Figures.

Butch sighs, running a hand through his hair, "Fine, then."

His feet carry him to his desk, where he promptly flops into his desk chair. He props his feet on the desk, staring out the window. The rain has lightened up a little now. Still dark outside, though. He's not sure what time it is. Butch frowns; it better not be raining tomorrow. With his luck, who knows what will happen.

Fuck, what a lackluster end to the day.


	4. chapter four

**RATED M** just in case (there's swearing and maybe violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)  
 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.):** 14,852

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. this fic ranges between the boys' POV, but i still haven't decided if i want to try it out from the girls' perspective yet.

/lmao still not beta'd and i fuckin rushed the ending, so feel the dissatisfaction along with me. im sorry ive been gone so long on this thing, but hey at least i fuckin updated it, so here you go. as i said, it's rushed, so prepare for more mistakes. ill go back and sort it later if there's anything too glaring.

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** he'll never escape this feeling /or/ there's nothing to cry over

* * *

It's still raining. Well, three in the morning...there's still a chance the rain will stop by the time seven rolls around. Butch snorts, rolling his eyes. Right, yeah. With his luck? It'll rain all day. Again.

Hopping down from the windowsill, Butch creeps out of his room. The sounds of his brothers asleep meet his ears. Boomer – tossing, turning in his bed again, snoring softly. Brick – still as death, but his eyes will snap open at the slightest sound. Butch picks his feet up from the floor, floating through the apartment. It's a little better; there's no creaky floorboards, at least.

He perches on the kitchen counter. Butch notices a broken glass in the sink, but doesn't actively do anything about it. He feels like a little kid again, sneaking around the warehouse, because he couldn't sleep. Got into shit that got him into trouble that got him stuck in his room for the next day.

Butch can't get those eyes out of his head.

They've always been intense, he thinks, and that makes sense. She's _spice_ , after all. She's vehemency where there is only vacillation, the aggression in the acceptance. He smiles bitterly. Vehement and aggressive. Sounds so much like her, he _aches_. He just wants his friend back.

Where did she go?

Or rather...where did _he_ go? That's what she's thinking, probably, angry and...well, whatever else Buttercup feels other than seething rage threatening to burst her seams. Butch stares down at the sink. He reaches down, flicking the already cracked glass. It falls apart abruptly; glass splintering almost delicately, before the shards clatter in the basin. Loud enough to wake up Brick, maybe enough to wake up Boomer.

And yet, he doesn't hear a sound.

With a huff, he thunks his head back against the window. (The dark little part of him flickers with interest; he doesn't bother stomping it down. Let it roam free, he thinks.) These sleepless nights aren't exactly new, but it's been a while since he's been plagued with them. Until recently, that is.

His hand curls into a fist. He flexes it back out, laying it flat palm-down on the counter. Brick said they had to be good. Butch can't just go and take out his anger via temper tantrum on the town. Not that he could do that anyways, now that he thought about it.

The night outside the window looks dismal.

The clouds clot together, smothering the stars. The rain still pours; the way it batters against the window reminds him of how Buttercup used to pummel him into the ground. How she used to throw him against a wall, slam her fist into his gut, and he'd feel something rearrange itself and there was this surge, this rush, and he felt _alive_. She made him feel alive, and that's the only thing he ever wanted to feel when he was five, six, seven – it's all he ever wants to feel now. Alive.

It didn't occur to him that feeling alive also meant feeling everything else that comes along with it. Like heartache. How pathetic; this is what it's come to. Staring morosely out the window, like a starring role of some emo poem. He frowns, pulling away from the glass. It's oddly cold. It's not normally this cold, is it?

 _"No Butch,"_ Comes a voice.

Apparently he voiced that.

Butch doesn't even flinch. He glances at the sound system over his shoulder. Still mounted to the television, blue light flickering with Wendy's voice, _"It's not usually this cold. However, the apartment has been secured with a fully functioning air con for a reason."_ He stares at the sound system.

"I thought we told you to stop tapping into the electronics?" Fucking Wendy. There's a poorly-muted chuckle, before her cold, but oddly sweet voice comes through the dark, _"I believe you told me to 'fuck off'. Far from 'stop tapping into the electronics', Butch."_ The boy rubs his face with a sigh, glancing back out the window, "...Right. If I tell you that, will you do it?" Wendy's silence feels like a condescending way of saying 'no'. Of course. He stares a little longer.

 _"Is something bothering you?"_ Wendy asks.

He's reluctant to give her an answer: "No."

 _"Butch. It's come to our attention that your sleeping pattern has bee -"_

"I _know_ what my sleeping pattern is, Wendy," Butch groans. He rubs his eye, watching the blue light stutter on the dvd player. The speakers play a soft static. It nearly lulls him to sleep. "And by _our-_ " Butch rolls his eyes - "You mean _you_. Mojo doesn't give a shit about me or Boomer." It's always been Red, always – always been Brick. The one with _potential_. The one who actually has a chance.

Wendy doesn't appear to have a comeback for that. Her breathing, the static, remains quiet. It even pauses for a second, as if she's deliberating. Fuck. Y'know what? Butch would rather the woman be here in person. Anything but being alone. But she's not, so this will have to do.

Butch flexes his hand. It's easy to see in the dark, his vision most definitely aiding him. He wonders what it'd be like if he didn't have powers. Would it all be pitch black? Would the streetlight appear dimmer? He wonders what the residents of Townsville would see right now. If they weren't all asleep. (He wonders if Buttercup's asleep. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she's drinking again, maybe if he goes roof-hopping, he can find her, maybe -) _"Did you find the reminders I left for you?"_

He blinks. Then he scowls, "I don't need to be reminded on how to open a fucking milk carton, y'kn -"

 _"No, the one I left on your bed."_

"What?" There was nothing on his bed. Just...bedsheets, pillows, fresh mattress (a nice touch.) There's a sour chuckle from the speakers. The blue light flickers with the sound. Butch wants to tear the sound system apart.

"Those _letters, from the green girl."_ The _'green girl',_ that's all she is, isn't she? On the big posters, she's just the green girl, and in the magazines, she's just the green girl, and that's all she is. Butch feels like punching something. "Letters," He whispers.

Wendy continues, as if he heart doesn't sink at the very sound, _"Yes, the letters. Have you read them?"_ She knows damn well he hasn't read them. They'll collect dust until he decides to throw them out. They're not as important as he thought they were. _"I'd advise reading them_ ," Wendy suggests. It's like she can read minds. Butch wishes he could do that. It'd make life so much fucking easier.

 _"There are some...interesting little tidbits I think you'll find useful."_ Before he can ask anything along the lines of, 'You read my letters? You read my letters?!' The speakers cut off. No static. No nothing. The sound system powers off. The blue light dies. Well then.

"Fuck you, Wendy."

What does he do now? Not listen to Wendy, obviously, the woman is as deranged as their 'father' sometimes. There's more chance of Butch ascending to heaven than there is of him actually listening to her.

It comes to mind that he has nothing prepared for the school year. Not even a backpack. He blinks, before sighing. Fuck. Maybe he can swipe a few things from Boomer's room? That little fucker should be all prepared – from how many shops to-avoid-Brick-except-uh-it's-actually-to-get-school-stuff he's taken.

See, this is why Butch should be the genius of the bunch. He's got the right thinking. (Except, well, he'd be more of a genius if he'd actually bothered to prepare in the first place.) Butch keeps his feet from the floor, easily drifting down the hall. He tries Boomer's door handle; the knob twists, the door props open soundlessly. He never thought he'd care about what state of living they're in. He's so glad this place was a recent renovation; brand new everything.

Boomer's slumbering form is...ugly. Butch has to stop and digest for a moment. There the blond is; _majestic._ The boy lays on his stomach, upper half hanging over the side of the bed. His BTS bedspread (and he calls _Butch_ childish -) is tangled around Boomer's ankle. Other than that, the rest of it is slumped on the floor. Snores drift from Boomer's prone form. Butch feels his face pinch into a grimace. A true picture of majesty.

The position looks far from comfortable.

Butch decides to leave Boomer there.

He creeps into the room; relieved when the carpet doesn't crunch (it's a long story.) Boomer continues to snooze away. Butch squints, looking around – aha! Boomer's backpack. It's one of those stupid, aesthetically pleasing but impractical looking things. Bedazzled, covered in patches, white of all colors. Butch wrinkles his nose, before tiptoeing towards it. He tugs the zip carefully. The pace is excruciatingly slow, but if it keeps his brother off his back, then fine. Bag open, Butch peers inside.

Jackpot.

Two bulging pencil cases, five different spiral-notepads, a fresh pack of pencils and pens – there's so much crap in here. So much stationary, how much does this boy _need_? Not all of it. Butch knows that much. But to remain inconspicuous, he only takes the bare minimum. Specifically, the most generic notepad Boomer has, and the entire pack of biros. The notepad is simplistic: lined, black front and back. Something Butch could grab from the dollar store. The pens are the same; simple biros, plastic casing, black caps. Something Butch could grab from the dollar store and buy them at half the price. He grins to himself. Genius, practical, and frugal.

Butch zips up Boomer's backpack. He's about to leave, when Boomer's phone _pings_. He glances over. The blond remains asleep, unperturbed by the sound. Curious, Butch weighs his options.

Leave undetected and revel in his success.

That's pretty much the only viable option...

Fuck it. Butch is careful to avoid using his powers. Boomer has a weird knack for sensing them – maybe it's an electricity thing, or...electrostatic? Is that the word? Whatever. It's like a sixth sense that ruins _any_ fun Butch tries to have. So he creeps over, treading carefully, feet light on the carpet. He crouches down. Boomer's phone hangs precariously from it's charger. The notification light blinks every few seconds.

He grabs the device, glowering at the password. A number-based password. Ugh. Who the hell even – why would anybody even – dammit. Still, Butch has maybe three tries before it goes on lock-down. First attempt: 1234. Nada...maybe their birthday? 4702? Zilch. He stares down at the screen for a moment. The bright light silhouettes his shadow on the wall; Boomer's muddle of comforter looking like a slumbering beast. Butch winces, glancing down at the phone again. Oh wait.

7811; and he's in. The phone unlocks.

The day the boys left – July 8th, 2011.

Butch frowns at Boomer's screen saver. Baby Blue; a recent picture. She's sitting, eating a snow cone – smiling at the camera merrily, blue staining her mouth. Butch wants a picture like that. (Not of Baby Blue specifically, but he wants a girl he can do that with – Rosa had...been an option, but she's in Cuba now, and it's not like she was special enough to carry around on his phone screen anyway.) Butch feels something cold trickle down his spine. He looks around, but sees nothing. Boomer's still asleep, blond curls tickling his hand when he puts the phone back down. Maybe those text messages aren't as important as he thought they were.

Whatever, he thinks. It's not like it mattered. Except it does, because Butch wanted something to fill his loneliness. And his brothers certainly aren't going to do that for him.

He stands less gracefully than he intended. He nudges Boomer on the way up. His brother continues to snore. Butch turns on his heel, swiping the notepad and pens as he goes. The door shuts behind him with a gentle click.

"What were you doing in Boomer's room?"

Butch glances at Brick. The redhead leans against the wall; waiting for him like some shitty Bond villain. Kinda pathetic, honestly. Lingering around in the dark. Butch shrugs at him. What he wants to say is, 'I didn't ask why you were in _my_ room, Red.' But he doesn't. Instead, he holds up his loot: "Got me some back to school supplies, s'all." Brick gives him a steely look. His eyes bore into him like hot coals. The red looks more black in the dark; Brick's eyes don't glow or gleam, not like a certain somebody he knows.

"Right," Brick states. Butch nods, shouldering past him, to the end of the hall. "Why didn't you get your supplies sooner?" His brother asks. Butch snorts, rolling his eyes, "Do I look like the kinda guy to come prepared?" There's no response. Not an appropriate one, anyway. Not a response Butch is looking for. "No," Brick muses, "I guess not." Butch doesn't know what he wanted Brick to say.

He leaves his bedroom door open; an invitation of sorts.

Brick wordlessly takes it, flicking on the light switch. The room bathes itself in a cream light. He wonders if these halogen lights are better than the stark-white ones. Maybe if he got those, Brick would look less understanding and more intimidating. Butch makes a note to invest in the stark-white light bulbs.

His brother lingers by the door. Butch busies himself, dragging his gym bag out from under his bed. This will be his backpack, until he gets an actual one. "You're an idiot."

"You only just came to that conclusion?"

Brick scowls, "Take this seriously, brat."

Butch smirks, "Thought that was lil' bro?"

The redhead clenches and flexes his hands. Butch finds it all too amusing. He kicks his gym bag aside, before trailing to the window. No smokes, no drinks. Dammit. Maybe he'll hop out the window, go buy some before the sun comes up. Brick lets out a breath, "What am I going to do with you?" He chuckles, mirthless, "What's that s'posed to mean?" His older brother is quiet for a moment.

Then, "You know exactly what it means."

And Butch really, really doesn't know.

* * *

Boomer wakes up; the birds are singing, the sky outside suffers a light drizzle and nothing more. His alarm clock reads 6:45 AM and honestly, he'd rather sleep in for another millennium. But alas, things can't always go how he wants them to go.

So he gets up, stretching high for the ceiling. His muscles ache; it's nothing a hot shower wont soothe. He swings his feet to the floor, ready to meander to the bathroom...only to find his phone under his foot. He could've sworn he left the thing on charge? With furrowed brows, Boomer bends down and grabs it; damn, 2% battery. Sighing, he hooks it back to his charger, and leaves it to rest.

He strolls into the bathroom, grabbing the white towel from the rack. He glances at it; Butch hasn't grabbed any of the towels this morning, thank god. That probably means he isn't awake yet. Boomer steps into the shower, pulling the door closed behind him.

All his essential oils, conditioners, shower gels, facial creams and ointments await him on the bottom two shelves. He smiles to himself. Butch and Brick share the top shelf, and most likely share the products between them. There's only a simple _Heads &Shoulders_ shampoo and two different shower gels; one is lemongrass and SPORTY TESTOSTERONE whilst the other is a mute, odorless gel. You can guess whose is whose instantly.

With a hum, he revels in their _wonderful_ plumbing. Hot water, the second he switches the dial to it. No waiting for it to warm up, no awkwardly dallying around in a towel and nothing else. Instant, soothing, pressurized water. Still, he shivers at the reminder of Butch this weekend. Shivering, drenched to the core in the night rain. Boomer shakes his head. Whatever. If Butch wants to wallow in his pity and loathing, then fine. But that doesn't mean he has to take notes from any pathetic romcom out there.

After a thorough scrub (coconut shampoo with vanilla extract, and that _Lush_ Berry Berry he's been meaning to try,) Boomer turns the shower off and steps onto the bathmat. He smiles to himself. That shower gel smells real nice. And the ache from his muscles his faded away in the heat. He pads out into the hall, and then his room.

His room is typical. Nothing appears out of place. The posters are neatly arranged on his far wall, his desk is tidy – aside from the loose papers he was writing music notes on last night. He likes the basic white walls. It compliments his blue rather nicely.

Humming a lazy tune, he opens his closet and stares. Taking in note that today is overcast; possibly cold, considering the breeze. There'll always be a breeze, he thinks. Townsville is coastal, after all. The ocean will always bring in gusts of wind. The thought makes him smile wider. Fuck, he's missed this place.

A button-up will do. Smart-casual, as is his usual style, but...leaning more casual. This is highschool, after all. Even if he wants a good 'first impression', it doesn't need to be _too_ good. He's already got the only girl he wants to impress. White button-up, navy sweater, gray jeans and maybe some white vans. That'll do. Right? Right. He'll grab his jacket on the way out. Once dressed, Boomer glances at the in-door mirror. Dashing, dare he say, _attractive_. Hell yeah. He needs to brush his hair, though.

More humming, as he combs his hair. He wanders out of his bedroom after grabbing his backpack. It feels a little lighter; he's not sure why. Maybe it's just his mood. Nothing can bring him down, not today. First day of school, seeing his beautiful, funny, lovely, amazing girlfriend – oh, Bubbles. Sweet Bubbles. His girl. He grins.

"Morning honeys!" He calls, entering the living-room. Only Brick greets him. Even then, it's only a brief glance. He hums, raising an eyebrow, "Butch not up yet?" Brick shrugs.

Boomer wrinkles a nose at his brother's choice of cereal: Raisin Bran. "Y'know, there are better cereals out there." Brick scoffs at him.

Still, Boomer doesn't wait for an answer. He's already halfway back down the hall, knocking on Butch's bedroom door. The _cuidado con el perro_ sign rattles against the wood. There's no immediate response. Rolling his eyes, Boomer opens the door, "Bro, c'mon, it's already seven -" The room is empty. "Oh."

Boomer's gut twists. He steps into his brother's room, looking around. The bed is still rumpled. His phone isn't charging, his jacket's gone from his desk chair, gym bag too. The window is wide open; the blinds rustle in the wind, windowsill glistening from the rain. Trying to remain cool, he walks over and shuts the window. He presses the latch. He wipes the windowsill with his sleeve. Boomer makes the bed, tucking in the comforter and fluffing the pillow. He turns, finding the closet door wide open, too. Butch's clothes are a mess.

The blond makes quick work of it. He hangs up shirts that need to be hung, folds others, tucks shoes neatly on the shelf. Butch's most used pair are missing; the grossly candied, caked shoes that are in dire need of being thrown out. Boomer scoffs to himself. Butch has a perfectly good pair of sneakers right here – why doesn't he just wear these ones instead? But Butch isn't here to question, so Boomer just shakes his head.

That is, until he finds something. It's a peculiar bundle of paper. He doesn't understand it for a second. But he turns it over, peels back the packaging. _Holy shit_.

 **BUTCH** is scrawled on the addressed to: section. Backwards 'c', ugly writing. Boomer blinks, bewildered. It looks like a child wrote it. A note flutters from the package, and Boomer swallows thickly. His eyes automatically dart to the **-bc** at the bottom. His head spins.

That's enough for one day. Boomer will die if Butch finds out he's been snooping. Clumsily, Boomer stuffs the package back under the closet. He's a dead man. He's a fucking dead man.

Stumbling, Boomer leaves Butch's bedroom. He shuts the door a little too harshly. "Briiiiick?" He calls, stalking back down the hall. Should Boomer tell him? Should he snitch on Butch? Brick will have his fucking head if he knew about – about the package. The _letters_ , something in his head tells him, but Boomer has no idea why 'letters' come to mind. Brick mutely raises an eyebrow from the couch. Instead, Boomer breathes, "You seen bro?"

Brick shrugs, standing with his now empty bowl, "Nope. Don't care where he is, either. As long as he gets his ass to school on time." Boomer frowns, before sighing. He would text Butch, but he's deciding to leave his phone on charge until they have to leave. 2%, maybe 4% battery isn't something he's willing to waste on Butch.

Still, he's gotta wonder where that boy's gone. His big brother can disappear really well. Actually, it might be a good idea to shoot him a text.

He wanders back to his bedroom, picking up his phone. He stares down at it for a second, blinking at a notification: a text from Bubbles, at 3:38 this morning? He frowns, opening the notification.

 _Bubbles: hey bb ilysm_

 _Bubbles: dont spose u've seen bc anywhere?_

Odd. Boomer frowns, before shooting back a quick response along the lines of, 'Sorry, was sleeping. I love you too...haven't seen her. Why?' Before pulling up Butch's contacts. Sighing, Boomer thinks briefly about what to say. Given that he'd left via window...in the rain, he'll most likely be in a certain mood.

Boomer: reckon i'll see u before school starts?

Because it's casual, and not exactly pressuring. Butch won't be agitated by it (too much, at least.) Boomer leaves his phone to charge some more, wandering into the kitchen. He grabs a poptart from the box, chewing on it mindlessly. Brick calls from the living room, "What'd he say?" Boomer rolls his eyes, "Thought you didn't care, huh?" Brick growls out, "Do you know where he is or _not_?" Fucking twist his panties, why doesn't he?

Rolling his eyes, Boomer chomps into his poptart (blueberry, yum.) "No. He hasn't replied yet." Strolling back into the living-room, he repeats, "Thought you didn't care?" Brick avoids his gaze. He has his phone out, which is a mild concern. But he doesn't appear to be typing anything. The screen is black.

It looks like Brick is contemplating to text, though.

Boomer groans; why are they so dysfunctional?

Oh yeah, he muses. His big brothers are both fucking idiots, that's why. He sighs, demolishing the last of his poptart. He licks the sugary frosting off his finger tips. He hears a shallow _ping_ from his bedroom. Before he even _moves_ to check it, Brick is standing, stalking down the hall. Boomer blinks. This is new.

He trails after Brick reluctantly. He doesn't bother telling Brick to mind his own business. He peers over Brick's shoulder, floating a little to see. In Brick's hand, the screen glows. Butch's green bubble sits there are on the page.

 _Butch: dw bout it lil bro_

Brick huffs, putting his phone back on his nighstand, "For fuck sake." Boomer frowns. He picks up his phone again, shooting off another text: _what does that mean?_ But, of course, there's no immediate reply. There never is. He feels his stomach tie itself into knots. Brick rubs his face with his hand. That's when Boomer notices how disheveled his brother is.

His usually silky hair is tangled, loose in its ponytail. Like he'd been untying it and retying it too much. His hat's askew – facing forward – and he's got a furrow in his eyebrows that looks less irritated and more...worried. Boomer wonders what's going through his older brother's head. "...Boss?"

Brick shakes his head, rolling his eyes, "S'nothing." He sounds delirious, murmuring to himself. A cynical smirk makes Boomer take a step back. "Don't worry about it," Brick mocks, storming out of the room, " _God_ , he's such a fucking _asshole_." Boomer doesn't admonish his use of words. No matter how many innuendos could be made out of that. He just shakes his head, "Well...maybe he has a reason -"

"If he tells us _not_ to worry, Boomer, what do we do?" Brick snaps.

Boomer grimaces, "...We worry?" Brick nods along, "We worry."

The blond presses on, glancing up at Brick, "Well...maybe we can trust him this time." Why can't Brick just have a little more faith? Maybe Butch and him will get along better if Brick didn't keep him on such a tight leash. His phone pings from the bedroom again. They both turn to look through the doorway. Brick storms over, snatching his phone from the charger cable, "Dammit."

 _Butch: means there's nothin to worry bout_

"Double dammit."

* * *

They're at the school gates when they find Butch. He's standing there – towering, hulking mass that he is – almost...hesitant on the curb. His gym bag hangs from his shoulder, his denim jacket is lightly speckled in rain drops. So he hasn't been in the rain for long, then. Their fellow classmates swarm around, bundled in groups under umbrellas or hogging corners in the corridors.

And Butch is just standing there, a look of resigned reluctance on his face. Boomer would call it comical, any other time. But this is his big brother Butch, who he hasn't seen since yesterday. Boomer finds himself running towards him, knocking over a few people in the process. He loosely apologizes over his shoulder.

He slams into Butch's still figure. Butch doesn't even wobble. "Butch," Boomer breathes, gripping the older boy's sleeve. Then Boomer hits him, "You _bitch_." Butch glances down at him, before taking a sip of his drink. It's Redbull, because of course it is. "Hola," Butch mutters. Boomer frowns, glaring up at him, "Where have you _been_?" The older boy shrugs. Takes another leisurely sip, "Somewhere." Boomer grits his teeth. Suddenly Brick's joining the conversation, "Where were you." He sounds like he doesn't care. Boomer doesn't get that, doesn't _understand_.

How can Brick act so aloof? So fucking bored and uninspired when before they left the apartment, Brick looked ready to _tear his hair out?_ Boomer wants to slap them both. Why are they so dysfunctional? Boomer. Doesn't. Get. It. At all. Not a single bit, this – this _toxic_ relationship his brothers seem to have.

He yanks both of them to his level by their collars. Butch blinks at him, curious. Brick looks ready to smite him, but does Boomer care? Not a single goddamn bit. "We're going to _fix_ whatever this is," He snarls, "I'm _tired_ of both of you being so far up your asses that you can't think of anybody around you. Get _the fuck_ over it." Boomer shoves them away. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out. "This is our first day back, okay? I want to make a good impression, so make me look good."

And fuck, he's got himself wrapped up in it. He couldn't have just left it bittersweet – get over it. That's what he wanted to say. But _no_ , he has to add 'make me look good', because this is the kind of bond they have. Or lack of bond they have. Fuck. He hates it. Why can't they just be normal?

Butch, with his ruffled hair and tired eyes, gives him this awful look. It's a mix between understanding and pitying, and it eats Boomer alive. As if Butch has been there. As if he knows what Boomer is going through. The thought makes him hurt. Butch just...Butch will always be an enigma, Boomer thinks. There's so much he can't figure out between both his brothers. And himself. All he knows is that -

Is that Bubbles is waving at him from across the field. Huffily, he adjusts his jacket, "Get a grip." His brothers only watch him walk away. He feels their eyes on his back the entire time he walks off. Neither of them stop him. He doesn't know why that bothers him, but it does. It...really bothers him. Makes him feel – well, makes him feel a little unneeded. Okay, so maybe that's melodramatic, but. The point still stands.

"Baby!" Bubbles chirps when he's close enough. She giggles, bouncing into his arms. She leans up, smacks a wet kiss on his cheek; they both laugh. Her friends 'aww' at them, squeal and comment _oh how cute!_ Boomer's genuine smile fades into a more basic one; polite, reserved. "Hello," He greets, "I'm -"

"Boomer, we know," The girls chorus. One girl – brunette, glassy brown eyes, "Bubbly told us _allllll_ about you!" Oh...great. He chuckles, squeezing Bubbles' hand in his own. "Good things, I hope." His voice sounds confident, but he feels anything but. Who are these girls? He looks to Bubbles for help. His girlfriend bats big blue eyes at him before grinning, "Oh! By the way, this is Chelsea -"

She points at the brunette. There's another brunette; braids, thick eyebrows ("This is Leah.") As well as a redhead ("Georgia." Bubbles leans close to his ear, whispering, "She's strawberry blonde, not 'ginger'.") Boomer smiles at them all, and they all coo back. "You're so lucky Bubbly, ugh," Leah scoffs, "He's so cute." He buckles himself in for the ride. He looks over his shoulder; where did his brothers go? A sinking feeling makes itself known in his stomach.

"Hey," He murmurs, "Where are your sisters?" Bubbles keeps talking to the girls, like she didn't even hear him. Her beautiful eyes glance to him though – hardened, steely. Then she continues talking. His question ignored. He swallows thickly. This is going to be one hell of a ride.

* * *

Boomer's retreating figure leaves Butch feeling cold. Sympathetic isn't quite the word he's looking for. He smirks to himself, draining the rest of his Red Bull. He wonders why his little brother's stuck with them so long. They all know that, if he really wanted to, Boomer could make it on his own. They all could. (Butch wishes he could.)

"You didn't answer my question," Brick states. He blinks, staring down at the rim of his can. It gleams weakly in the bleak daylight. "What was your question again?" The heat of Brick's glare would probably kill Butch if he was intimidated by this sort of thing (he's very intimidated by this sort of thing, but thank god for root beer before a Red Bull.) "Where. Were. You." His brother punctuates.

To that, a chuckle bubbles out of him. Butch rocks on his heels, before crunching his can in his hand. His eyes roll upwards – the rain is a miserable drizzle, shying a fine mist but it's _heavy_. Then to the left – a couple girls, maybe freshman, mingling together and giggling among themselves. Butch accidentally catches a pair of eyes and glances away. "Uh...yeah..." He trails off. "Where was I?" Butch twists his mouth; "Gambling." The grin threatening to break his face is easy to repress. Brick's silence? Less easy to repress. Butch's senses are on alert. Every deep breath the older boy takes, every grind of his teeth, how his blood rushes violently.

"You're kidding." It's an order.

Butch shrugs, "If you want me to be." But the nice wad of cash in his pocket says otherwise. Another deep breath. Brick shakes his head. There's no hissing, like Butch expects. But there's a sudden hand gripping his sleeve hard enough to tear. He sighs, following Brick's tugging. This is his good jacket, after all.

They tromp across the school yard, not bothering with the 'don't walk on the green' cautions. Butch clucks his tongue; this isn't how he planned his first day to go. In truth, he'd...sort of been hoping to avoid his brothers. That he could just get on with his own business. He's no antisocial creature by any means, but he'd been hoping to maybe cement his identity within the school _without_ his brothers. (Or to try and find Buttercup.)

Scenery passes, and suddenly Butch is being slammed against a wall. He lolls his head, peering down at Brick. Wide, heated eyes glower at him. He just raises his eyebrow. He could really do without this lecture right now. The fist curling into the neck of his shirt feels a tad unnecessary.

Words seem to stint Brick. His mouth works for words, but his teeth clack together after a minute. His tense posture goes slack, and he tugs at his ponytail. Fuck, Butch wishes he'd just chop it off already.

The silence is stagnant between them. Butch can hear Brick's heart pound – rabid, he thinks; and here he thought he'd always been the wild one. He wonders what's eating at him. What has their big – no, monumental dysfunction? He frowns a little, cocking his head. Brick seethes under his gaze. Butch wonders what he's done to get such a response. (Butch knows what he's done. He's fully fucking aware, and not sorry for any part of it.)

Eventually, Brick slams him into the wall. Once, twice. A third time for good measure. Butch winces; chips of brickwork scatter, and chalk raises in plumes. Brick releases him with a huff. Rubbing his shoulder, he watches Brick clench and unclench his fists. "I hate you," The redhead spits. Butch shrugs, "I know."

"I hate you so fucking much, Butch."

"I know you do, Red." Exasperated.

"Don't call me that."

"Sure thing, Red."

An empty feeling eats at his insides as Brick storms away from him. Butch glances down at his hands. He could have fought back if he really wanted to. Could've punched him. Could've caught him off guard – _punched him punched him punched him_ and...

Well, there's a reason Butch doesn't try to fight Brick. What would they even do without Brick? The emptiness is replaced with resentment. (Butch wonders where his spine went.) He flexes his fingers; his knuckles shift under his skin. Pursing his lips, Butch looks around. There's nobody here. It's the concrete ground, riddled with weeds and cigarette butts, and the gray clouds above. He glowers. Just the slightest bit. Sighing, Butch peels himself from the wall and starts roaming back to the front of the school.

His hands are numb, and the back of his throat burns. Swallowing around it, he forces the feeling down. Students are more cluttered now; they stand like cardboard cut outs, scene props, background cast of a scene. His sigh condensates. Hands in his pockets, he smirks at a couple of girls eying him. The brunette giggles and glances away; her cheeks dust a light pink. Butch tears his eyes away. (He was only looking because of her hair; jaw-length, fanning out, but her bangs aren't the right shape, and her hair is too red-toned.) He strolls.

Then a familiar voice cuts through his static. Like a radio frequency; the channel dialed, and her voice filtered through the background noise. His heart wells up. For a second, he can't think. The static overcomes her melody, and he falls through a void. He blinks, and looks around. There. At the trees.

Buttercup.

He frowns.

She's tall and towering, lithe and lean. Irate and...incandescent. Butch feels like a moth. Except this isn't a meme, so she's not a lamp. She's just...limelight. He wonders what's got that frown on her face; the knitting in her eyebrows. Then he sees Mitch. Something sour crawls up his throat.

Butch edges closer. Not towards her, no, that'd be stupid. She'd pick him out immediately. Her eyes would scald him, his bones would melt, and he'd be a puddle of misery at her feet. So he stays away. But he can hear her now. "Fuck you, Mitch," She snaps. Mitch's figure slumps. _Ha_ , he thinks. _Ha_. No, he doesn't understand why that feels like a triumph.

"We're not -" A hand to her face, rubbing her face in frustration. "There's nothing, now. Nothing. Get it?"

"But Buttercup, I -"

" _Friends_. That's it."

"I'd rather have nothing, then." She shrugs. Butch's mouth waters. He pauses, and smacks his lips. _What_? Weird. Pondering the resolution in Mitch's tone, there's only a few things that could have happened. Logically, anyway. And Butch knows how relationships tend to go. (She doesn't love Mitch, and that's an odd thought, but a reasonable conclusion. Wait – was Mitch in love with her? Or just the thought of her?)

He scratches his cheek. This isn't any of his business. It's not – it really, really isn't. Still, his eyes are drawn back to them. Maybe it's his own loneliness, or the sheer _boredom_ , who knows. Maybe he just misses his best friend and wants to be back in her life. The last thought makes him takes a harsh breath. He glances away. Then back. He doesn't try to look away a second time.

But he's missed important dialogue by this point. Mitch tries to grab Buttercup's sleeve, but she shoves him away. It's gentle, even for her...but she turns and stalks away. Stalks in Butch's direction.

Holy shit, she's walking in his direction.

And now all he can do is look at her. Even in this crappy weather, she's stupidly candid. Her hair sticks to her face; wild curls, dark, black, blacker than black. Butch smiles involuntarily. It's just natural to smile at her. Buttercup used to smile back, is the thing. She doesn't. She doesn't even see him. The air shifts as she storms past him. The heavy weight lifts, but it sends him reeling. He's an astronaut on the surface of the moon; his bones are weightless all of a sudden, then his head falls from his shoulders and he can't breathe.

Why does she do this to him?

How does she do this to him?

Tongue heavy in his mouth, it takes him a minute to notice his name being called. "Big bro?" He blinks to Boomer's hand in his face. He takes a step back, chuffing irritably, "What."

The blond sighs wearily. Butch watches him run a hand down his face. "Where's your girlfriend?" Butch grumbles. Boomer winces, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Huh. Maybe they finally broke up. What a cruel thought. "You looked...out of it?" Boomer tries. The sympathy lacing his tone translates to: _you looked...upset?_ Butch hates it. So he shrugs off the concern, and snorts, "Whatever. C'mon."

Boomer's footsteps shuffle after him. "You never told me where your girlfriend went," He chides. Boomer laughs weakly. "She had some extracurricular she wanted to sign up for."

He hums dully, "You didn't go with her?"

His little brother shrugs, "No...no, I didn't." That's that.

"Oh, by the way -" Boomer holds out a piece of paper for him. Butch raises an eyebrow. He takes it, and stares down at the classroom numbers that stare back up at him. Schedule. Great. He tucks it into his pocket and huffs. Boomer continues to stroll inside with him. He lets Boomer lead them to their lockers, and doesn't bother to listen when the blond tells him his combination. Whatever. It's not like he'll use it anyway.

It's not long until the halls start to fill up. Lil' Blue appeared somewhere along the way. She'd bounced up to Boomer, kissed him on the cheek, and cooed, "Where did you go?" And with Bubbles came her friends; a flock of them, and some with their boyfriends, and some without. Butch pretends he doesn't feel their staring. He's a new kid after all. Give it a week and he'll be forgotten again. He hopes.

But a girl strays from the rest of the pack and leans against his locker, "Hi." He glances at her, eyebrow raised. She smirks, "Silent type. I like that." Butch pauses, before letting his usual smirk curl against his lip. "Maybe I was just waiting for you to introduce yourself, bollo (babe)."

She preens at the amusement in his voice. "Call me Abby." Butch nods. He has no intention of remembering her name. "Abby," He repeats, as if tasting it on his tongue (it tastes stale and too much like day-old pot noodles.)

"What's your name, gorgeous?" She purrs. Butch resists the urge to twitch. He keeps his smile pleasant, "The name's Butch." Abby laughs softly. She bumps her shoulder with him – well, her shoulder to his elbow, but he supposes it still counts. "Butch, huh? Cute." He shrugs.

Teasing, she leans in, "Y'know, usually it's the guy complimenting the girl..." He looks up from his shoes; she eyes him expectantly. Abby even gives him a nudge, giggling to herself, "More of that sweet voice can make up for the time you're taking to think up of something nice." Butch snorts, and rolls his eyes, "Fine, fine." He clears his throat, and mutters the first thing that comes to mind: "Te ves como cualquier otra chica." Abby fans herself jokingly, and laughs along, "Oh, I like the sound of that."

Butch smiles to himself. She winks at him exaggeratedly, and nudges him with her elbow a little, "But thank you! You have successfully saved face." He nods, scratching his cheek. She cocks her head, "Huh, really not much of a talker, are you?" He'd talk more if it was somebody he actually liked. Butch shrugs.

And then, like last time, a voice cuts through the static. He glances up, and watches Buttercup wade through the body of students. Everything else falls away. It's just her, and murmurs; "'Scuse me, comin' through, move." His heart flutters in his chest. Uncertainty. He swallows roughly. Bitterness seeps into his chest. "Buttercup," He whispers, and she whips her head up.

They catch eyes. Opposite ends of the hallway...there's no way she would've heard that unless she was waiting to hear him say it. She would've been too busy trying to get through everybody. Unfocused. Butch feels his breath get caught in his throat. Buttercup's eyes cut into him; it stings, it cuts, the wound is somewhere between his ribs and his lungs. He swallows again, and mouths her name.

She tears herself from their staring, and continues away from him. She's silent, this time. Butch feels his heart squeeze uncomfortably in his chest. Rejection hurts.

"Uh, helloooo?" He blinks back down at Abby. Her hip's cocked, hand resting on it sassily, "...Did you seriously just blank me for Buttercup?" Butch rubs the side of his neck, and shrugs. He doesn't have a readied explanation. Abby scoffs, then frowns, and slumps. She curls a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess everybody does..." Damn right, is all Butch can think. Buttercup is something else.

"I can't blame you," Abby hums. Her tone becomes self-depreciating, lacking enthusiasm. Butch finds it hard to feel guilty. He's an asshole, a dickhead, a tough-boy-no-feelings cutout, so. He watches the girl scuff her shoe on the floor. "I used to know her," Is all he offers. Abby glances at him, wide-eyed, and then nods stiffly. "Right."

He wonders why that seems like such a big deal. Back in elementary, maybe. The Powerpuff Girls were untouchable back then. Simply knowing them gained you popularity points. Now? Not so much, apparently. Butch bites his lip; he glances back at Boomer.

The blond is wearily laughing along to something. His shoulders are slumped, hands in his pockets. Butch wonders where everything went wrong. (He knows where it went wrong; it was the second he stepped onto the plane, with a thousand goodbyes bottled up inside of him, and one girl who didn't hear a single one of them.) "Oh Boomie!" Bubbles laughs, clinging to his arm. Something rotten and green sours in his gut. It tastes like envy but it feels like resent. Butch supposes, technically, those two things are exactly the same.

His feet start carrying him away. There's a scoff that follows, but he doesn't care. It's pure compulsion, but he _needs_ to try and talk to her. To get her to understand – her words from the night before make him stutter a breath. _Bye, Butch_. A shiver runs through him.

"Bro, where are you going?" Boomer calls. Butch continues to stride through the clusters of students. He needs to make Buttercup understand. (He misses her. Horribly.)

People scoff at him for brushing past them. None of them bother trying to instigate anything. Understandable. He's a giant compared to these kids. One punch from him, and they'd probably die. He rubs a hand down his face, and turns another corner. Where did she go? _Where did she go?_

"Looking for somebody, Butch?" Blossom. He whips to look at her, damn near tripping over his own feet to do so. She chuckles softly, tilting her head to the side, "You look like you're on a mission, there." Butch blinks. The fuck is she on about? "What?"

The redhead adjusts the books in her hold, and nods to the classroom door behind her. Then she leaves, the cryptic words, "Might find what you're after in there." Butch watches Blossom disappear through the crowded halls. Her bow bobs through the fray.

Butch glances at the door. He frowns, and glowers at the blind pulled down over the window. Dammit. He grabs the handle, and pushes. It pops open with a soft creak. The noise seems to cut through the static. Ignoring it, he steps inside. Oh. Double dammit.

The room is empty. At least, that's what he assumes. There's...nobody here. He slumps, dragging a hand through his hair. Great. With a huff, Butch moves towards the windows on the far wall. The light is bleak as it filters through. Raindrops his the glass. The sound is a soft pitter-patter. His fingers drum listlessly on the windowsill, as he looks out. The windows peer out to the stretch of green in front of the school. It's barren, students having fled inside to escape the rain. All except one:

Buttercup.

* * *

Boomer tries for Butch's retreating figure, but Bubbles' hand on his arm stops him. She cocks her head, and gives him a confused look, "Where you going, Boomie?" Her voice is so sweet, he feels bad for trying to leave. He sighs, and turns to watch Butch storm around the corner.

The girl he left behind doesn't look too happy either.

Oh well. It's just like Butch to leave things unfinished.

"Nowhere," Boomer assures. Still, there's a niggling feeling in his gut. First Brick, now Butch. Dammit. He glances up at the flock of girls around him. Cheerleaders, mostly, or some other theatrical art. Strawberry Blonde laughs loudly, and Bubbles gives her own – oddly obnoxious, nasally – giggle. Boomer bites his lip. Today is...going to be an odd day. No surprise there. Really, it's a wonder he missed all the signs. Except he hadn't. He'd seen them, bright and clear, from Brick's irritability to Butch's absence. The only thing it could've entailed was an impending travesty.

Especially with the girls involved.

But Boomer ignores that factor.

"Oh, hey Blossom!" Said girl strolls along to her locker; hair flowing, heels clacking. Blossom blinks (almost befuddled, almost like she doesn't know who's talking to her, almost -) then turns to find Bubbles in the mass dividing them. "Oh hi!" She waves. It's a weird interaction. Like they weren't expecting to see each other. Boomer feels the distance between the two girls like a chasm. He wants to throw himself into it.

 _Fancy seeing you here_ is palpable in the pause. Blossom looks ready to say something. Instead, she smiles once more, before turning back to her locker. Books are shuffled. A handbag is shouldered. Bubbles seamlessly continues her conversation with her fellow plastics (hmm, we'll see how that coined term fairs.) Boomer sighs, crossing his arms. This isn't how he wanted his Monday to go. He wanted his brothers here, and to not be so isolated. What's wrong with him? He's usually great at making friends.

"So, Boomer, I heard you were in Hav- _aaaaana_ for a while. What was that like?"

He shrugs, forces a grin, "Well, I guess you could say it was, uh, muy divertido."

The girl talking to him stares blankly for a moment. Then she snaps her fingers, giggling, "Ohh, I get it! 'cus they speak Spanish over there!" Boomer feels his grin dim for a second (ha, get it, _dim_?) He resolves to smile, closed lipped, and nodding along. Bubbles gives him arm a squeeze. He glances at her, to find her baby blues staring back at him. (He feels like her enthusiasm is glazed, and he can't figure out why.) "Aww, my baby's so _hot_ when he speaks Spanish..." The compliment feels oddly tacky. Less genuine. Superficial. He blushes all the same. It's Bubbles, after all. "T-Thanks." This girl will be the death of him.

A chorus of _aww_ rings in his head for the next five minutes.

However, that all goes out the window when he finally sets foot into a classroom. Specifically, his homeroom, where he dreads having to go to the front of the class. Bubbles doesn't share this class with him, and had mournfully kissed him goodbye before skipping down the hall. A knot builds in his stomach. With no familiar faces, Boomer had trudged to the back row. His bag thudded to the floor. He slumped into his seat.

He hopes to god everything goes well. He's just – all social endeavors have been thoroughly crushed, somehow. Maybe it's Butch, and his sudden abandonment, or maybe it's Brick and...him being _Brick_. Something tastes sour in the back of his mouth, though, and the eyes on him make his palms clammy.

C'mon, he's fought worse. Introducing himself to the class couldn't be that hard. It's better this time, because Boomer actually knows the language spoken initially, and his voice _won't_ shake with nerves. It'll go just fine. Just...fine. He takes a breath, closes his eyes. One...two...three. Boomer releases his breath. It feels like a live-wire buzz shivering down his spine. When he opens his eyes, it's to the teacher stumbling into the room.

She looks frazzled, with glasses hanging on the hook of her nose, "Morning, class!" The woman thumps her bundle of papers on the desk. The murmurs pause briefly, before continuing again. Nobody cares. Boomer settles into his chair. The teacher gathers herself, whipping around to scrawl her name on the whiteboard. Her pen squeaks. A kid beside him scoffs, grimacing at the noise.

Mrs Edwards, the board reads. Her penmanship is loopy, and garish in her purple pen of choice. Boomer drums his fingers boredly on the table. The woman clears her throat loudly, "Good _morning,_ class!" The chatter dims. Mrs Edwards clears her throat once more.

Her squinty eyes scan the room; the woman plants her hands on her hips, chin raised, "Now, this is the start of a new year, a new day, and I expect we get along quite ni -"

Shouting filters through the windows.

Mrs Edwards frowns, trotting over.

She tuts, slamming the window shut. "As I was saying," And Boomer tunes her out from there. He listens to the yelling. It sounds from an eastward direction – the front of the school. The unnerved feeling intensifies. Fuck. That better not be Butch. That better not be Butch. Boomer discretely crosses his fingers and hopes. _Not Butch._

Another harsh clap brings Boomer from his thoughts. Mrs Edwards looks around the room, "Now, I know you all know each other, but we have a new student joining us this year." Her eyes land on him. Boomer fights down an embarrassed cough. All eyes turn to him. For a mere five seconds Boomer is scrutinized. Then most lose interest. Still, Mrs Edwards beckons him to the front. She smiles wide, as if to try for an encouraging look.

Reluctant, Boomer stands. It may attempt to be kind, as said before, but he can't help but think she looks like a predator watching prey walk into a trap. He swallows back anxieties. Dammit.

Stuffing sweaty hands into his pockets, he flashes a bright smile for the class. They all watch him, with dull eyes, bland expressions. Mrs Edwards pats him on the shoulder, "Meet Boomer! Why don't you introduce yourself?" She steps aside. Boomer is stranded at the front of the classroom.

Clearing his throat, he waves. His voice comes out crisp, just as he practised: "Hi, I'm Boomer. It's nice to meet you all, I'm new in town." And from there, it all goes to shit.

Double dammit.

* * *

When Brick had left, there had been a baleful sensation running from his neck to his toes. (Regret, maybe, or something like a _could've done, should've done feeling_.) There was no respite to find within the building, but still, he endured. His thoughts less raced and more...meandered, leisurely, but domineering like a villain prowling as they spew their monologue. He frowns.

Interaction with anybody had been kept to a minimum. He had shit to think over. Mainly Butch – because _of course_ it's Butch – and his knack for screwing things over. He doesn't remember his younger brother always being like that. Fuck, to be honest Boomer was more of a problem when they were kids. Brick wonders what happened. That's only sometimes, though. Sometimes. (A lot.)

Then, of course, _she_ had come along. Blossom hadn't seen him, obviously, and he plans to keep it that way for as long as possible. Obviously his brothers have abandoned the plan. The plan was there for a reason, though. Brick likes to think that in doing this, he's doing something right. There's some semblance of normalcy happening among them. Sticking to the plan. His plan. Like they always do. Except both of his brothers have veered wildly from course, in a way that feels oddly familiar, and Brick struggles to chase after them.

In the end, there's only so much he can really do.

Of course, Boomer would make the argument of, "We're just _kids_ now, Boss, we don't need to stick to a plan!" And maybe, somewhere in the background, Brick would meet Butch's glazed eyes, and it'd be agreement enough. But Butch is always sad and Boomer's _whipped_ , so neither of their opinions matter. They don't know anything. They don't...know...a single goddamn thing. Brick knows what's best. He does! Always has, always will. Those two can just get so...ahead of themselves.

Brick stares down at his desk. A cluster of crudely etched dicks stare up at him. An Illuminati symbol, something about a Robin and a Mike. The names don't ring a bell. Then again, none of them do. Brick's eyes flick up to the front of the class.

The teacher seems to have forgotten he has a new addition to his class. Brick is fine with that. These people don't need to know him, anyway. He'll be out of this hellhole before they know it. He doesn't need friends, he just needs his highschool diploma and graduate records.

As students gab and talk around him, Brick finds himself distracted. Odd, but not unusual. It's not like plotting a task list, it's more like waiting for an inevitable. Which inevitable? Unspecified. And maybe that's the part that has him curling his hands into fists, pressed firmly into the grainy surface of his desk.

The phantom sensation of Butch's worn leather collar in his hand makes Brick flatten his hands. Palms open. Fingers splayed. _I hate you so fucking much, Butch._ It's a lie, but it's also a scare-tactic. It used to work. It makes Brick remember that, no, Butch isn't a little kid anymore. Brick grits his teeth. He used to be better at adapting. To changing the way he corralled his brothers into line. For their own sake.

A coldness sets deep in his bones. Chilled; either by the downpour outside or the revelation that maybe he isn't as good at this whole big brother thing as he thought he was. (Though, considering his fiery nature, he's reluctantly inclined to believe the latter.) Dammit.

For a while, that's how it goes. Brick presses his hands into the table – feels his lungs steam up like melting ice cubes – and pretends that isn't bile sitting in the back of his throat like an acrid regret. The classroom is content to ignore him. Brick is nothing interesting, after all. Perhaps a few curious cursory glances, but Brick is not outstanding enough to be drawn to. And that's how it was planned. How he wanted it to go.

Maybe Boomer was onto something about that _just kids_ thing. Just a kid. Even if he is so much more than that. So much more. Brick answers his name when it's called. And still, nobody bats an eyelash. Townsville's folk have always been a little dim.

Just as the tension leaves his shoulders, that's when he hears it. Yelling. Crystal clear (to him) through the glass. A girl and a boy. Angry. _Not Butch_ , he demands silently. The commotion is loud enough that classroom chatter mutes. Eyes draw to the windows. Double Dammit.

Brick is one of the many that stand and gather. One of the first. Hands planted on the windowsill. Through the drizzle, there are two kids. Butch. The green girl; Buttercup. "Fuck," He hisses. Overcast skies do nothing to hide the sparks splitting through the mist. The raised voices. Arguing; what about, unclear.

"Now, now," The teacher says boredly, "Back to your seats, class, that's none of our business." But Brick's already shouldered his backpack, striding for the classroom door. "Where do you think you're going, young man?" The teacher calls.

Brick pauses. Looks over his shoulder, "To stop a fight before it levels half the town." The raised eyebrows and owlish blinking is enough hesitation. Brick pivots. Brick is out.

His steps are fast and loud on the linoleum. He makes it maybe five paces before kicking off. Brick sails through the front doors of the school. Flying is a sensation all of itself. Reconnecting with something he'd tampered down. Setting a lit match onto dried wood. Roaring fire withstanding the wind. That doesn't mean he's immune to the rain, however. Brick grits his teeth it.

He follows the sound of Butch's fast-rising voice like a dog follows a trail; something pulls like sutures in his chest. Brick needs to fix this. Needs to keep it down. Before it snowballs into something big enough to gain attention.

A lash of pink zips past him. Brick falters. Falls behind. Stumbles onto the school field, insides quivering like embers doused in water. He clenches his jaw. Fucking _Blossom_. Sticking her nose where it doesn't belong -

That's _his_ brother. That's a poor argument. That's _her_ sister. Shit.

That's his brother. That's her sister. Fuck.

Brick catches up easily. He pays no attention to the girl beside him, nearing the focus of his concerns with rapid speed. Butch's silhouette is easily identifiable. If Brick didn't recognize his voice, the bulk would be enough. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Shouted, desperate, angry. Hurt. But nobody will comment on that part.

"Well you're the fucking one who cut off for _seven_ goddamn _years_ , you prick! What the fuck did you expect me to do?" Neither seem to notice Brick and Blossom's arrival. God, her name is enough to make him bite his tongue. How quaint. How fucking juvenile. She still has that bow in her hair. But that's not the matter right now. Can't be. Brick has a brother to reign in.

"Language," Blossom quips. Buttercup whips around – and, wow, she's hit a couple growth spurts, huh. "Fuck off, Bloss, I don't need your bullshit right now." And, wow, that's _not_ what Brick had been expecting.

"Gee, glad to see it's not just me you're being a bitch to," Butch hisses. Ire easily earned. Their eyes glow, haunting, like eerie lighthouse beacons in the gray. Buttercup grinds her teeth, "You deserve every fucking bit of it."

Blossom reaches out – Butch recoils – Brick doesn't know what to do. But the next thing that happens is Blossom being shoved back, trying to catch her balance in _heels_ in the _mud_ , and suddenly Brick's got an iron-clamp on her arm to keep her from falling. Silence grips him tighter. Blossom's eyes snatch his; two bitter chunks of damp chalk. Brick remembers her looking sweeter than that. Her eyes shone back then. All that's on her face is chagrin. It is far from flattering. "Thank you," She clips, tugging her arm back from him.

That moment – whatever that was – has not stalled Butch and Buttercup. They're back at each other's throats. Hounding for _something_ , driving each other deeper into spaces too small to fit. Waiting for an explosion to burst forth.

Brick scruffs Butch before he can rise to the challenge. _Yanks_ him back. Blossom's done something similar to Buttercup. It's something Brick pays little attention to, but he watches Butch.

Butch, who is on the ground. Leaned back on his hands, hunched awkwardly to accommodate Brick's clutching. His wild eyes zero in on Blossom's nails digging into Buttercup's shoulder. Bruising.

It's so _strange_ and Butch _hates_ it. Buttercup snarls, shakes off the wrenching hold, and narrows those damning eyes at her sister. Mutinous. "Oh the _first_ day, Buttercup? Seriously?!" Blossom gripes.

Buttercup doesn't seem to notice, or care, because she shoves her hands in her pockets and shrugs stiffly. Sniffs with nonchalance. Stares with ease in her leader's eyes; defiant. "Get back inside," Blossom snaps with a rough tug of Buttercup's elbow, "Now. You can bet I'm telling Professor about this."

Wordlessly, Buttercup starts walking across the grass. In the opposite direction of school. Blossom's face blooms a shade of red incomparable to any kind of frustration Butch has ever seen. Redder than her hair, her bow, her shoes. The girl runs a hand down her face. A sigh heaves her frame, before she drops her hands altogether. "You two should, too. Go back inside." Butch is reluctant. He wants to go home too. Doesn't want to be here.

But Brick's tugging him by his collar again, so the ground is solid under his knees as he gets to his feet. Brick moves from his collar to his sleeve, tense in the shoulders and brow, steps fast and too far to really look like a casual retreat.

Butch cranes his neck; watches Buttercup saunter out into the main road. Kick once, twice, spark traces of green behind her as she lifts from the ground.

Blossom lingers. Watches; not with concern or worry, but with indignation. She shakes her head. Stalks back towards the block she came from. Butch can pick up traces of her muttering. Doesn't bother trying to figure out what. He s'poses it ain't really his business.

But it feels everything like his business.

* * *

Boomer catches him trying to leave around lunch-hour. It's been a grueling morning; sluggish and fucking _miserable_ , and all Butch wants to do is roll a blunt and conk out. His backpack's already heavy with three text books and homework with scathing deadlines. He doesn't want any more.

Butch is almost at the front doors to the building. Striding with intent. Walks over the sprawled legs of lounging students, eyes threatening to burn lasers with his stare. Then there's the patter of shoes on the linoleum. Butch recognizes that pattern. Knows it's Boomer before he even says, "Butch! Man, there you are. Boss' looking for you." It confidently solidifies the guilt in his gut.

Dammit. Boomer's hand curls around Butch's arm when he doesn't slow down. Change course. Go _oh, sure, on my way_ and turn on his heel. "...You feeling good, bro?" It's an obvious out. Butch snatches it like a lifeline.

"Got, like. Headache or somethin'," Stumbles out of his mouth. Tongue heavy. Boomer purses his lips. They stop just before the doors. Boomer pulls his hand back, nodding slowly; blue eyes searching, but Butch likes to think he's good at acting.

Sure enough, Boomer nods with more conviction. "Yeah. Yeah, you don't look too hot. I'll tell Brick." Thank god. Butch nods along; eyelids heavy, a practised unfocused gaze. The blond peers up at him one last time. Hesitating. A hand on Butch's shoulder, "'M here. If you need something." Because of course Boomer knows Butch isn't unwell. Of course Boomer knows it's something else. Double dammit.

Still, Butch musters a tight-lipped smile. He watches Boomer breeze back down the hall. Confidence Butch knows is fake. That charming laugh is as rehearsed as Butch's bravado. What an idiot.

Then he's out the doors. Leaping down the steps, one hand wrestling for his lighter, the other fiddling with the zip of his inside pocket for a smoke. Asphalt shines blindingly. Slicked from this morning's rain. His sneakers stick to it. Pink confectionery chunks and sprinkles left behind, before Butch gives up on walking and lifts from the ground. A stripe of green in his wake.

Wind in his hair. His mind seems to clear, the further from the ground he gets. Flying over the midday traffic. Butch cups his lighter, watches the flame dance just before his nose. Deep breath. Blue gray smoke mingling with the parting clouds. His eyes close.

Where is Butch going?

Where does he want to exist today? Now? Ever? Butch focuses on _now_ , and lets that lead him. His chest tightens when the office buildings start dwindling. Just like they did last night. Glistening windows to blackened structures, some flattened and others skeletal. The decrepit destruction-pit stands differently in the daylight. No longer shrouded in the aching despondence that'd bitten him cold.

Another drag.

His feet meet the remains of a roof. Barely a platform. Rubble shifting under his weight; loose pebbles clattering down below. A cross breeze forces a groan to echo through the wreckage. Obviously, the area is different. Silent. Littered with cans that wink where the sunlight reaches. Butch frowns; newer scorch marks and a some of the nooks he remembers fallen. That's what happens, though. Things change. (So, really, it's stupid of him to relate a loneliness creaking inside his chest to the creaking of rusted metal.)

Despite the silence, he can imagine the laughter. Can see himself and his best friend kicking their legs over a gaping drop. Burnt beams and red-hot metal. Chugging cola and seeing who could throw their empty cans the furthest. (Oh, what a sweet ache that brings.)

 _That was fun_ , she said, and looked at him. That wicked-wild hair. The gap where she lost her incisor. Swinging her legs lazily, unafraid of the beyond, because why is that a thing you worry about when you're seven? Seven, with a respite made out of the wrought and ruined things. _I liked that shield-thing you did, y'know,_ and Butch's heart didn't twist then like it does now, but that prideful warmth had fluttered just the same.

Or that other time. Sneaking out at night and the moon glide to settle into the ocean. Another time – it'd been a rough day, and he'd wanted to go home and curl up and be sad where nobody could see him – but she'd flown him out here with her arms spread wide, walking precariously along that rogue beam; _see this? It's ours! You can be anything out here,_ and he hadn't really understood the significance the way he does now.

'You can be anything out here'. You can be sad out here. You can be happy, or mad, or hurt. It's an unrestricted recess when there isn't a monster to fight. Butch still doesn't know what he wants to be. Mournful? But what is he mourning? What did he lose? (More like what did he take away from her? He doesn't have the answer for that, either.) He drops his cigarette stub and watches it fall.

"God, you're everywhere, aren't you?"

Butch doesn't flinch. Tampers down a smile, maybe. Bites down the broiling anguish that's trying to creep up, and turns to glance at her. The girl. Not his. Never was, he supposes. Definitely no chance now.

She's there, a little behind him. Less vexed than earlier. Shoulders slumped, hands in her pockets. Looking how he feels. "Small world," He offers weakly. The smile she musters doesn't even look like a smile; exhaustion weighing down seemingly everything – and fuck if that ain't familiar. "Small world," Buttercup echoes. A sigh that heaves her entire being.

Their shoulders brush as she shuffles past him. Crouches down to sit on the crumbling ledge. The sunlight doesn't make her glow like it used to – or maybe Buttercup's lost the glow altogether – but she's still so pretty. Butch grits his teeth. Steels himself.

This is a stupid idea.

Butch sits next to her.

So far so good. Buttercup's eyes are following the pebbles' journey to the ground. Dull. Disinterest stitched into the lines of her hoodie, more importantly the lines of her body and how she leans heavily on the elbows digging into her knees.

A hand runs down her face, another sigh, "I...meant what I said." Butch frowns. Nodding, he ducks his head. If she looks at him, she wont see the regret clogging his pores. Who would _want_ to see that? A pathetic picture, really, one Butch doesn't want Buttercup to see, so he stares keenly down to the ground.

But his eyes draw back to her. Earth anchored to the sun. And that's just it – this is all he is, another planet caught in her orbit, one she doesn't want there, will eventually burn when she gets bored. That's how it goes. Right? ( _No_ , he thinks, _no, because she's too good for that_. Too good to just leave things like that. Unlike. Butch.)

"I do," She says – it sounds like she's trying to reassure herself, shoulders hunching and eyebrows knitting together. Buttercup looks at him; indiscernible. Butch tries for something similar, but with how she sighs, he knows he didn't do a good enough job at smothering his aches. Buttercup bites her lip. Rolls her shoulder, turns away once more, wind tousling her hair. Butch finds comfort in recognizing the action.

Butch closes his eyes once more; tips his head back as the winds whip past. "I know," He murmurs with similar uncertainty – feels it lather over his tongue, or maybe that's saliva from the nerves, or maybe it's just because he really needs to stop staring at her hands (always the strangest things that set him off, what the fuck?) It's unclear what part of their anguish-caused scene she's referring to, but Butch is confident that she's right: _he deserves it_. Maybe things were said.

From him being an asshole to the fact that he's lost the right to call her his friend – she's right. It hurts. Buttercup hasn't lost her bite. That much is clear. And it really, really hurts. He deserves it. ' _I do_ ,' is said in his head with much more conviction than what Buttercup had mustered. Swallowing down the tautness in his throat, he turns to meet her eyes. "Trust me, I know." He won't admit she's right, however, because that's never been how they worked. Never. His pride's taken too many hits already, he doesn't need to embarrass himself by giving in to one of the few people he really respects.

Buttercup only holds his gaze for a moment. Her eyes drop like dull marbles, shoulders hitched up. It's unclear whether it's out of hesitancy or hostility. Butch's mind scrabbles, but is empty-handed; there has never been a time he, that he remembers, where she sat this huddled. So small. Withdrawn. Something in his stomach twists.

Another silence creeps in the spaces between them; even the wind seems to fall, solely to let Butch drown guilt. Just over the ruined buildings, you can see the ocean. That strip of gold sand, and the vast expanse blue. Deep and dark, sloshing back and forth as the tide lolls. His heart sinks. He's anchored to the spot. God, if only he could say something else. If words just flowed – things could be better by now. Not _fixed_ , but better. But his throat is a pipe that's been wrenched, the water cut off. No words come out.

He's drowning. But he looks at her – his old friend, the friend he's not allowed to have anymore – and she doesn't seem to be fairing much better. Barely got her head above the waves. (Butch has forgotten where the metaphor stops. It comes so naturally. She's trying to swim, but she's not the swimming type; has no gills to help her breathe a little easier.)

"But –" Buttercup rakes a hand through her hair, grinding out her next words – "You're here. And there's nothing I can – the only thing I can do is tolerate it." Deep sigh that hisses through her teeth. Eyes pressed shut. Eyebrows furrowed. This is an expression Butch remembers – frustrated and wound up, fists trembling at her sides. He can't offer a sparring match. Not anymore.

Brick said they can't make a mess. Even if it is in this dump. Can't draw more attention than there already is. Can't make a mess. Can't make a scene. Can't express himself. Can't hurt. Can't breathe. Can't _can't **can't**_ – and there's a reason he doesn't try to fight Brick.

"I can be tolerable," Creaks from his rusted-pipe throat. Buttercup clucks her tongue dismissively, swinging her legs above the emptiness. (The world's always down that little trick; disappeared if he stopped paying attention to it. Leaves him stumbling in a white nothingness with his sole focus. And Buttercup? Well, she's always been his cynosure.) He scrunches his nose, dares to nudge her foot with his own. "What?" He prods, "Y'don't think so?"

All jest is lost as she scoffs, "After this morning? Not a fucking chance."

He slumps. Twists his lips, before pursing them, and rolling his eyes in an attempt to mask the bile rising in his throat once more. He just had to put his foot in it, right? Just like that. Because he's stupidly fucking impulsive. Of course. That's how it always goes, right? He's a fuck up!

But when did that start being a problem?

"You're not exactly the easiest to put up with, either," He spits. There's heat behind it – he's not sure where it came from, because for _days_ he's been wallowing in this sense of _hurt_ , and anger hasn't flared once. Not for her. Not for Buttercup. Still, his teeth clack together and he whirls to glower at her, "I'm – I'm tryna fuckin' make bridges, you bitch –" Why is he saying that? He's not trying to do anything – "An' here you are – running away, like some –"

"Oh, shut the fuck up about _running away_ , you dick!" In one swift moment, Buttercup is on her feet, baring down on him with the same brazen anger she'd had earlier, "You're a fucking asshole, Butch!" Her hands are thrown up, voice pitching disbelieving, "Fucking prancing around like you own the goddamn place, and y'know – winning Blossom over, because fucking _everybody_ does, right?" And Butch is starting to question whether the root of her anger is entirely his fault.

"Then it's all, 'oh Buttercup, behave and play nice', but –" A noisy swallow (Butch wonders what emotion she's swallowing. Is it contempt? Or is it something sadder, like him?) Buttercup rakes a hand through her hair. Her sharp eyes cut into him. Lost. Searching. Gaze dancing around his face, but never his own eyes, and eventually Buttercup settles on the silhouette of Townsville just over his shoulder. "Why should I have to play nice when you haven't even – haven't…"

Buttercup shakes her head.

Then she vanishes. Again.

A streak of green that crackles in the wake of her devastation. Butch blinks. Bewildered. Reeling. Struck dumb. The world comes back in increments; waves crashing, and the briny air tearing through the blackened, man-made gorge. His hand twitches. There's a dim urge to touch the lingering energy, but it dissipates before he can even form a coherent thought of it.

"Haven't what?" He whispers.

"Haven't _what_?!" He barks out.

The echo resounds; fractional.

* * *

"FUCK OFF, WENDY!" Boomer's shriek carries down the hall. Butch arches an eyebrow, trudging up the last set of stairs. The line of doors is quickly becoming a familiar sight. Elevator, of course, looming on the other end of the hall like it usually does.

So Wendy's already bothering his brothers, not even a week into living alone? Butch tuts, rolling his eyes. The overhead lights flicker slightly. He makes it to the door of their shared apartment, lingering. His hand hovers over the handle.

Brick's going to be pissed. Boomer's going to be upset. Butch is great at doing that, he thinks. Great at just...ruining everybody's day. Everybody. Nobody escapes his gloom. A true saboteur. Gritting his teeth, he pushes through into the apartment. Warmth hits him; Boomer's apparently gotten through to Brick about the thermostat, then. He chuckles to himself.

At first, he's unnoticed. Better off that way, he figures. Slinking off to his bedroom, Butch shuts his door to the sound of Boomer throwing a spoon at the microwave when the telltale crackle of Wendy's voice filters through the sound system again. Typical Wendy. Conniving, meddling, stupid bitch. But Wendy all the same. There are much better things she could be doing with her life, Butch reckons, but clearly whatever monkey-father-dearest pays her is enough to stay around.

Woman's gotta entertain herself somehow.

Butch kicks off his shoes. Clumps of sugar and sprinkles slop to the floor. Coagulated and freshly sticky from the rain. He wrinkles his nose, before flopping onto his bed. The mattress resists him in the way all firm mattresses do. Butch hates it. In fact, he blames the mattress as to why he's been so sleepless. (...Ignoring all the naps he's taken, instead of a full night's rest.)

Just as he entertains the idea of another brief rest – both brothers are tearing through his bedroom door. One of them's seething, steam coming out of his ears like some deranged freight train about to combust. Brick. Go figure. Boomer's dancing nervously, looking ready to try and grab Brick's arm to stop a fight. Luckily for Boomer, Butch is all tuckered out. "Hi Red," He murmurs into his pillow.

A brief pause follows. Either his brothers exchange one of those _oh god/uh oh_ sort of looks, or Boomer's being burned into silence. Butch doesn't give a fuck. Can't find any of the spare fucks he's squirreled away, either.

His mattress dips as somebody sits on the end of it. Brick, most likely, by both the weight and the heat. Butch keeps his face in his pillow. Feels a tightening in his chest, and curls his fingers into his pillow. The fabric rustles in the quiet. Too long passes, to a point that Boomer tuts and saunters over and flops into the desk chair by the window.

"Don't call me that," His brother finally sighs; it's easy to imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. Or his head in his hands. Maybe thinking _what am I doing wrong? What did I do to get stuck with this fuck up?_ Honestly? Butch doesn't blame him. He's such a mess. Dammit.

"Sure thing, Red," Butch hums. He keeps his back to them; breathing even and steady, maybe to allude the idea of weariness. Boomer usually falls for it. Brick doesn't, but Brick's also too done with his shit to pry any further at this point. He's just that exhausting. Double dammit.

A solid punch to Butch's thigh. He winces at the bluntness of it, but he deserves it. So he doesn't complain. His thigh smarts all the same. "We're ordering pizza again," Brick tells him, "Do you want half-mushrooms again?" At Butch's nod, Brick stands back up from the bed. There's rustling; the shuffle of feet, and Boomer leaves the room. Brick is still lingering in front of Butch.

He startles at the feel of fingers pulling his shoulder. He follows the motion, rolling onto his back. The bedroom light shines behind the older boy; Butch has to tamper down the thoughts of Buttercup looking similar, only a couple hours earlier. Brick has less hurt in his eyes, however. Concern softens the pinch of Brick's frown, and it makes Butch feels sick.

Brick presses his fingers harder against his shoulder. He blinks, opening his mouth – then closing it again. His sigh comes out like a hiss, eyes narrowing, "What the fucking is _going on_ with you?"

Ah, there's that sour aftertaste again. Bitterness biting at his bones. Butch shutters off; blinks slowly, unwilling to give anything away. "What?" He snorts. Folds his arms behind his head, grins (it doesn't feel right on his face,) "Nothing's going on with me, Red. I'm peachier than Angelina Jolie's ass -"

Brick opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Blinks owlishly and turns on his heel to stalk about of the room. A cackle bubbles up before he can quench it. It's punctuated by Brick slamming his door shut. His laugh dies the second the latch catches.

Somewhere in the half-hour it takes for pizza to arrive, Butch falls asleep. It starts off bittersweet; aimless, with no real meaning. Him and Buttercup. They're at the pier again. Another summer day, too many smiles to mean anything good. Close enough to hear her heart, close enough to feel her excitement, close enough to – well. That's the tricky thing about imagination: he could do anything. So he held her hand. Simple, sweet. In the dream, she'd smiled at him with that too-toothy grin, and blinked with a look of pleasant surprise.

 _Now this is a little cutesy, don't you think_? And she looks eight, because that's how old they were in this particular memory, but her voice is older. Seventeen and bitter. Dark compared to the light in her eyes. Her voice reflects the brewing clouds, the roil of the ocean.

The surf nears. Creeps from several hundred feet away to lapping at Butch's sneakers – why are they coated in sugar? Why is her hand so cold in his? Why, here, in this dream, in this place where he is free, does he feel his heart burst in his chest. Filling his lungs with dread.

A sea of letters starts rising. Buttercup's hand slips out of his own, and she's – she's not crying, Butch can't imagine her crying, not after she did that very first time. But it's close. Throat taut and words raspy, _You're a fucking jerk, Butch. A fucking asshole!_

Paper-cuts start appearing. Blooming red. All over his fingers, his wrists – crawling up his arms until he feels them emerging along the lining of his lungs. Hard to hear. Hard to breathe. Hard to feel.

Tonnes of letters. Literal tonnes, swooping until they pile into a tear-stained clump, tied together with twine. Butch is choking on his own blood. He's fallen back on his hands. Head craned to stare at the bundle in a quaking kind of fear that disturbs his bones. On top of the pile is his best friend. Once-was best friend.

Head bowed, hand gripping a smaller bundle. A wet sniffle, shoulders shuddering. Butch feels something tender sink to the soles of his feet. A hand twitches – to reach out – but the second he moves she whips her head to stare at him. Buttercup grows before his eyes; hitting all those growth spurts he missed, all the gangly-ness and janky limbs, all until she is looming over him with eyes filled with absinthe. Acerbic words, he knows, but he can't hear them. They hit him all the same.

 _YOU LEFT ME._

He falls to his knees.

 _HOW COULD YOU **DO** THAT?_

The wind is howling, roaring, the sound gets so loud Butch can't figure out if he's hearing anything at all. Numbed and deafened. Looking up to try and answer – because really, how _could_ he do that?

He gasps, trying for anything – a plea for understanding, maybe. Something catches; he clutches his throat. Something scrapes from the inside, and he doubles over on his hands to try and hack it up. Can't breathe. Struggling to breathe. Hands shaking, vision swimming. Choking himself hoarse. Something flies from his mouth. Hits the deck of the pier with a wet thump. Butch wheezes, rasping, as he tries to get a better look.

His shoelaces. Grotty and caked in sherbet. Slimy with mucus and blood, one of the metal aglets missing. Butch raises a hand to pull it from the roof of his mouth. He hiccups, the same now-bloody hand coming to wipe his eye.

The silence rattles him to his core. He blinks, looking around. Nothing. Nobody. The ocean has settled back down by the beach. Licking serenely at the sand, pulling back and surging forth. The pier is empty. No letter to be seen. No Buttercup to be seen. Butch coughs into his hand. Wipes the crud on his jeans with a shuddering breath. Fuck, he thinks. FUCK.

He awakes to a similar silence. Cotton stuffed in his ears, maybe, everything sounding too muffled and too lonely to make any sense. Heart pounding like a rabid thing in his chest. Thudding relentlessly. Short of breath. Throat sore; Butch clamps a hand over his mouth and nose before an embarrassing noise can let loose. Squeezes his eyes shut. Wills the urge to scream down, tucks it somewhere deep inside him and _keeps_ it there.

Orientation. Where is he? His bedroom. On his bed, with the new bedsheets he bought. The nightstand to his right, and the desk further than that. Posters on his walls, and a closet tucked just beside the door. A closet that has a horrible, awful fucking burden in it. A door that will only lead to disappointment and judgement. He slides his foot off the bed, firmly pressing his heel against the carpet. "Y-You're okay, Butch," He whispers.

His entire skeleton is reluctant to comply as he sits up. Muscles spasm – especially the one near his neck – and he grits his teeth against the sensation. Forces his eyes open. Nods his head, tugs his hair at the roots before running his hand through it. Nodding again, Butch stands up and stretches his arms out.

Perfectly okay. Totally fine. He wouldn't even call that a nightmare. All is right with the world. A slight tumult, that's all. Butch nods once more. Three deep breathes. Three seconds in. Four seconds hold. Five seconds out. "You're okay," He whispers again.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, Butch starts for the bedroom door. Something holds him back. He pauses, and stares down at the foot of his bed. A pair of shoes sit there, on the floor. Coated in pink sherbet and grungy taffy. Repulsed, Butch bends down to pinch them by the heels. Yeugh. The smell still lingers; artificial strawberries and melted plastic. (There's an itch in his throat that sends an irrational spark of discomfort through him.)

With shoes in hand, Butch emerges into the living room. "Remind me to throw these out at some point," He croaks. Gritting his teeth immediately after, he drops his gross shoes on the counter.

Boomer immediately groans his dissent, "Noooo, not on the goddamn counter. Just put them in the trash."

Butch leaves his shoes on the counter.

It's only Boomer in the living room. Brick must be in his bedroom, then. That in mind, Butch's entire being collapses onto the couch. He feels Boomer's eyes on his back, but he doesn't move. A beat, and Boomer comes closer.

"You good?" The blond asks. Butch sighs, before opening his eyes and rolling to face him, "I'm great, lil' bro." Frowning down at him, Boomer makes an unconvinced sound.

He lowers his voice, "You didn't seem so sure of that when you woke up." The boy clasps his hands, before shoving them in his pockets. Gaze askance. He leans closer, as if afraid that anybody could hear: "Y'know...if something's up, you c –"

"Just a dream, dumbass, relax." Butch has to stop Boomer before he can hit a nerve. Has to stop him before something unravels, and Butch spills his guts. He's already belly-up, what more does he want?

Butch sighs, sitting up, "Have we ordered the pizza yet?"


	5. chapter five

**RATED M** because i still don't fucking get it, so just in case?

 **WORD COUNT (ignoring author's note, etc):** 13,123

you know the drill: it's GREENS mainly, might include REDS or BLUES, however GREENS is the main focus. POV is just all over the fucking place at this point, bon appétit.

/not beta'd leave me alone (i'm planning on going through the chapters eventually and correcting shit myself, when i have time, but it's not gonna be a drastic enough change that you need to reread it, so don't worry) but like usual, don't be afraid to ask if there's anything i've been unclear with, or anything i've missed; it sorta makes my job a little easier when i go comb through this bullshit

 **CHAPTER TITLE:** ghost spotted on back-roads of West Boulevard, reports local! /or/ my sisters, my responsibility

* * *

"You can't just _leave_ on the first day, Buttercup. Why jeopardize your senior year like this, already?"

Buttercup's never quite noticed the view she has from her bedroom window. The mileage of lilac skies; not a cloud to be seen, sun glaring in gold. An ocean dappled with topaz in the sunlight, dark and deep and devious with what lurks beneath the shimmering surface. The plateau offers a view of the beach, free to see over the terracotta roofs of the lower-lying suburbia below. Skyscrapers don't start towering until you reach the easterly side of Townsville: Buttercup's sights are a beauteous clarity in this early evening.

Blossom throws a hand up. Exasperation in her very steps, heels dug into the sunflower-print rug Buttercup bought at the thrift store. The sun on her skin makes her look gossamer; eyes filmy with sunset pink, but not softened. Buttercup refuses to shy away from her gaze. "Uh huh," She dully intones.

"I don't even – the _nerve!"_

And she's off once again.

Turning back to the window, Buttercup peers down at the ant-like civilians dallying further into town. Floundering as they always do. A gormless lot – a wry smile forms at the reminder, of how much of her life she's fucking dedicated to these idiots, of how much of her life has been lost to their ungrateful ineptitude. She snorts. No point in getting angry over it now, she supposes, what's done is done. Not that she has to be happy about it. (Buttercup isn't happy about a lot of things nowadays.)

There's a sense of nostalgia in this. In Buttercup's room once Blossom's back home from her after-school debate club, with the sun hanging low and the tide surging up along the beach only a fifteen-minute walk away. The lull of the evening. Sinking deeper into her bed (six years old, with broken springs, and a warped metal headboard that's suffered more angry punches than _anybody_ cares for.) Maybe watching the ceiling fan spin, maybe listening to the sound of the town settling for dinner with their little families in their little homes with their little worries. Blossom pacing that same circle into the sunflower-print rug.

It's only been the first day at school. Of course, Buttercup has already trod on Blossom's toes, barreled through several different iterations of could-be reunions with a certain Ruff, ruined the real reunion with him, failed her summer project, and thrown up whatever she'd guzzled down for breakfast yesterday.

Turns out Budweiser, left over pot noodles and painkillers aren't the best way to tackle a hangover.

"Don't you think, for once in your life, you could be _mature_ and handle the situation like an _adult?_ " Blossom pulls her bow from her hair, shaking out the auburn mess. She doesn't look too dissimilar from a frazzled cat, honestly. It's a look, certainly. It's a look. It suits her. Hissing with fluffed up fur, tail trod on by a bitch. Buttercup is the bitch. As usual. When isn't she, at this point? Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup – troublemaker without a cause.

Buttercup frowns. "I'm not an adult, tho -"

"You will be soon enough! You need to start prioritizing the important things, not stupid fights with people you're angry at. Pick your battles." What wisdom. So sensible. As if that's not what Buttercup's been doing all her life. With a roll of her eyes, she sits up. The mattress creaks under her shift in weight.

"Uh huh," She drolls. It took a while for Buttercup to learn to bite her tongue, but it's only proven more and more useful over the years. Especially when Little Miss Perfect decides to come down on her with the force of a loaded truck. A doozie, this time. A double whammy.

" _Uh huh_ ," Blossom mimics. She flaps her hands around for a second, like she usually does when she finally notices that her exasperated lecture has no effect. Tittering under her breath. Pacing slowing to a standstill, centered on the sunflower-print rug. Her eyes are searching. Dismay crumpling her face like wet paper. This time, Buttercup looks away. _This_ , she will shy away from. The disappointment. All those other feelings – feelings in general, probably, gross and finicky, feelings Buttercup just _doesn't get_ anymore, hasn't felt in fucking years – messy, like unraveling balls of wool. Except, the wool is a tangled clot of held-back tears and held-in shouting and dished-out apathy, and Buttercup refuses to acknowledge that the wool has strewn itself about her room in a poor rendition of décor and additional homeliness.

Buttercup has never felt at home in this new house.

Not that anybody really gives a shit, but she misses her old home. The stupid block-modernist architecture and the coldness of its white walls; it held more structure in her life than just about anything, with the wicked basement and the worn-out kitchen that had enough scorch marks from Blossom's attempts at cooking that it looked permanently blackened.

But that was a long time ago. They haven't been there since – _well_. Since the boys left. That year was disastrous, and Buttercup _wont. think. about. it._ Fucking assholes _._

Blossom is still looking at her. Buttercup arches an eyebrow, hunching to rest her elbows on her knees. "That's all you have to say to _everything_ , isn't it? 'Uh huh', 'sure', 'whatever'." Derision starts to settle in. Cold like it always is. Admonishing as you'd be to a _kid_ , but Buttercup isn't a kid anymore. When will Blossom see that?

"You used to be so outspoken," This is said softer, mournful, and the soft sadness returns to those rosy eyes like melting ice. But this always happens, it's a falsehood at this point. So it's not a surprise when the frostiness spikes quickly after, "When did you change?"

And Buttercup can't answer that. So she sets her jaw, shrugs loosely, and mutters an incoherent, "I dunno." It does the trick. Blossom sets off again. Tutting and scoffing, running hands through her frenzied hair. Pacing. Circling. Driving herself up the wall. Not that it's anything new.

Slowly, she reaches for her boots underneath her bed. The laces are frayed and some of the leather's worn away to reveal the tarnished steel caps underneath, well-loved in the years Buttercup's had them. Slightly too small now – she loves them too much to replace them, yet. She tugs them on, ties the laces, and stands up. Unnoticed, she gathers her phone, her keys, her jacket, and makes a move for the window -

Only for Blossom to latch onto her wrist. Goddammit. "Are you seriously just going to walk out on me like this?" _Like Bubbles always does?_ Buttercup bites the inside of her cheek; it's a struggle to school her expression. The hurt in the older girl's voice has a phantom sliver of guilt slinking around her neck like a noose. She's never been good with this. With emotions. With Blossom. "You _always_ do this," Blossom frowns, "You're always _running away_ , it's not like you."

As if Blossom has any idea who Buttercup is anymore. With that cold thought, Buttercup tugs her wrist from the girl's grip and ducks out the window. A snippet of Blossom's protest is lost to the wind that streams past Buttercup's ears; it's the short drop to the ground, only two stories, before barely brushing the lawn as she pulls a sharp pivot into the air.

It's like the wind blows off any layers of dread. Gone to the harsh chill that comes with flying so fast, head tilted to peek at the shy smattering of stars starting to appear in the twilight. Flying does something to Buttercup; always has – makes her thoughts scatter like clouds in the summer, gone, the wind pulling them away from her head like it does everything else. The bite numbing her to anything and everything.

But everything comes to an end. Buttercup comes to a stop; hovering, distended, stilled, knees tucked to her chest like she's perching on her windowsill. Only a couple hundred feet from the ground. Watching it all from high does something to her, too, tugs out all the attempts to fill the emptiness, and lets her feel the hollowness with a deep-rooted resentment. Grounding.

Lights start flickering to life. Yellow squares dotting from the suburbs, all the way to the renovated towers. Orange-faded streetlamps and the halogen headlights of cars, stinging her eyes from all the way up high. With a frown, Buttercup turns away from the artificial lights.

The sun has just set; a thin line of red on the horizon, the ocean looking aflame. Fiery like Blossom's hair, her passion, her eyes. Buttercup frowns deeper, wearier the longer she lets her thoughts drift. There were times when her sister would chase her as far as Buttercup would try to escape, through the depths of the wreckage site, beyond into the parched grassland.

That was a while ago now. She can't remember when that changed. When the fire was snuffed out. _C'est la vie_ , she figures. That's just how things tend to go. People give up eventually. Still, her skin prickles: a chill that isn't because of the breeze.

She lingers until the sun fully sinks, submerged by the ocean. As it does, the day's events press onto her shoulders in the same sinking weight. Man, today fucked up so bad. The breath she lets out marks the beginning of her decent – deflated like a balloon, drifting lightly in the breeze, letting it guide her to her next landing.

Colored lights catch her eye. Somewhere in the merge of suburbia to high-rise blocks, the flashing lights of some middle-class party reflects on the glossy windows of the city. Figures. There's always some kind of party happening around there. Buttercup diverts from the winds, angles herself toward the ground. Trees rush to meet her – deciduous, the colors of fall in warm amber tones – she manages to meet the asphalt with little more than a scratch on her elbow.

Around her, the neighborhood is mostly still. Lights on in each house. Silhouettes of families gathered at dining tables. If she tunes to the right station, even their conversations can be heard; warm chuckles, light squabbling, family ambiance. She tucks away whatever ache tries to rise in her gut.

Buttercup takes a leisurely stroll towards the outlier. There is no loud music. Not yet. Just the lazy orbit of kaleidoscopic lights seeping out from the house's windows, and not a single beer can strewn on the lawn. Makes sense; the night is still young. It looks like she got here just before the party starts.

Upon arrival, the house and address are familiar. A regular party-thrower, some kid in the grade below her; snotty little brat, parents with money. Still, the host has never stopped her from dropping by before.

The vacant drive is an all too familiar sight. She walks down at a shuffle. Buttercup doesn't know what cars are meant to be parked there, but knows that their absence means what it does here what it does at her own home: parents have gone out of town. No parents, but a wad of cash? Well, what else is that supposed to result in?

The answer is simple but delightful: booze. And that's it. For Buttercup, anyway. For others, the list is longer – involving sex, or company, or a night forgotten and parents' truancy left behind with yesterday.

A bitter chuckle catches in her throat.

Just as she raises her hand to knock, a giggle cuts her off. _That_ giggle. Perky, snorting at the end. For lack of a better word: bubbly. Buttercup drops her fist. Stands and waits. It takes less than a moment to switch the frequency to the right channel; being so close, it shouldn't have been too hard. " _Oh, you're so_ _ **funny!**_ _C'mon, tell me another!"_ That's Bubbles alright. Of course it is.

Buttercup twists her lips, taking slow steps back down the porch. Can't go to a single fuckin' party in this town without sweet sister dearest beating her to it. Where's a gal to get her grog now?

Hands in her pockets, Buttercup pivots on her heel and hunches her shoulder to the wind. It whips her hair around, colder than before. Her eyes water. The wind, obviously. _Obviously_. Like a rocket, she shoots skyward once more. Wind. Wind. Wind. Getting colder the longer the evening drags along – the oasis never has been the kindest night-wise.

Still, as she peers back down at the cul-de-sac, a strange-familiar knot tangles up in the pit of her stomach. The feeling of...concern. Tasting like a sixth shot of vodka and lemon; sour and making her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. Buttercup purses her lips. The higher she glides, the heavier the knot grows. A resistance strengthening in the building distance. That same worrisome sensation. Every time. This happens. Dammit.

Buttercup drops back to the ground without grace. The door stares down at her, dissonant colors shining through the mosaic semicircle window.

Bubbles is behind that door. Usually is, she figures, always attracted to the potential for partying and people and the illusion of closeness. Buttercup? She's just there for the drinks. And Bubbles. Sort of. Out of a sisterly obligation, maybe, to be there – to make sure _nothing happens_. To make sure she's _okay_. Because Blossom, for all the chick's fuckin' worth anymore, she doesn't exactly do the 'party scene'. Or any kind of scene. Or anything at all. Because, when it comes down to it, Buttercup's the one doing all the grunt work. Always has. Always will. When it comes down to it – _Buttercup_ is the one that gives a shit. When it comes down to it – _Buttercup_ is the one picking up the slack. When it comes down to it –

Buttercup cares.

A whole fuckin' lot.

And if _one_ sister isn't going to make sure Bubbles is okay, then it's up to Buttercup, ain't it? Bubbles is – she's – soft. Unbearably soft and dependent and full of love, light, leisure, made for basking in those sunset breezes and frolicking in fields of wildflowers with little care for anything but how the warmth fills her with bliss. Parties can go downhill fast. Parties can get dangerous. Especially parties around here. (A little ol' town like Townsville? Nothing ever happens. People...kids...learn how to have fun in less than conventional ways. Buttercup would probably be more against it if she'd maintained her strict hero-code from her youth. Now? Well, let's just say she's delved more than once into these unconventional pastimes. She'd be a hypocrite to go back on her word now.)

So she raps her knuckles against the door. It's the kid whose parents are out of town – shaggy brown hair and the same eyes – faceless, practically, nameless to all but his close-knit group. Just as all Townsville residents are. "Yo, Buttercup, sup?" That dudebro voice she manages to reflect just as easily.

"Sah, man, heard you were setting up a party?" It's easy because everybody knows Buttercup. Know she's the _chill_ gal, likes to kick back, wins beer pong and can sit a keg contest without flinching. Knows she doesn't care. Knows she's there, just like the rest of them, to have fun. Sort of.

Her lax stance and the easy smile have him fooled. Dudebro 1 grins, nods with approval; he steps aside, holding out his fist. She bumps it in passing.

It smells like a regular evening. There are few teens lounging around – a copse of girls giggling around the speaker, deciding on a playlist to let stream through the night. A gathering of guys down by the kitchen, dragging out fold-out tables and lining solos on them. The light machine is nestled on the center of a coffee table; perhaps the only truly interesting thing going on, cutting through the dim with ovular rotations of the same filmy colors. Overall, it's nothing strange.

She wanders through. Dudebro 2 and Chad nod and throw her greetings, before letting her saunter towards the stairs. That's where Bubbles' voice had come from. Satiny and jovial.

All Buttercup does is step in the stairwell and press onto her tiptoes. Her height gives her leverage in most cases. Especially when it comes to spying on certain sisters. There she is: doorway to the bathroom ajar, bejeweled pumps glinting in the shoddy overhead light.

It's Bubbles' usual party getup. Heels. Scalloped-cut (whatever that means, apparently it's 'flattering' to Bubbles' figure, but Buttercup has always thought whatever the girl wore she looked nice -) and blue, with a deep neck. Buttercup bites her cheek. Watches that dazzling smile. Knows that whichever poor victim has been ensnared by fetching eyes and fluttering lashes. They're laughing between themselves. Probably one of his 'jokes'; not that anybody has the knack for comedy around here.

Isn't she with somebody now? The thought is dim, a light bulb barely flickering, but it's enough for Buttercup to frown. She's pretty sure Bubbles managed to swipe a new boyfriend in time for the beginning of school. Fucking Boomer, of all people.

Dumbass.

Rolling her eyes, she lets herself slip back down the stairs. It's looking like a night for wall-hugging. Throwing a party on a Monday isn't the oddest thing to ever happen. It still throws her week around, though. Not that a party on a Monday will stop her from having to lug herself to one on Friday, too. For Bubbles.

Bubbles, who is giggling with some other boy upstairs right now. Forgive and forget – to the extent of forgetting she kissed and made up with Boomer, apparently. Not that Buttercup's going to say anything. She has no place in whatever drama will unravel from that spool. Still – it doesn't hurt to be cautious, right? Not that Buttercup's ever had a knack for such a thing. Caution has always been a hindrance. (Then again, Buttercup shouldn't even be the one chasing Bubbles 'round like a shadow, watching from dark corners, guarding her drinks and being watchful of every other body in the room. Buttercup shouldn't even be here.)

She swipes a cup off the table. Just something to take the edge off. Nothing harmless. It's gone in a gulp.

A low whistle comes from Dudebro 2, sly smirk and a not-so-subtle once-over, "Damn, Buttercup, don't think I've seen anybody that excited to down piss beer like that." And he's probably being truthful. Who would drink this shit willingly? Other than her, that is. Then again, half these kids pouring through the door aren't here to pseudo babysit.

Reaching for another cup, she shrugs, "The cheaper shit gets me drunk quicker." As if it's a valid reason. Or, really, a reason that should come from such an influence. It's not like these kids actually give a shit, though. Dudebro 2 just titters to himself and nods in agreement; he already looks a little flushed himself. Buttercup doesn't comment. Never does. Instead, she asks, "How many people're you planning to show up?"

The guesstimate is lost to the sound of the music rising in volume. She nods anyway. Flashes a smirk and watches him saunter off to greet guests. Buttercup sips her drink leisurely.

There hadn't been a chance to taste it the first time, but the guy's right: it _is_ piss beer. Doesn't even sting on the way down. Just acrid. She swishes it around in her mouth before chugging the rest like she had the first. There's not a lot to be said, she figures, beer is beer at the end of the night and as long as Bubbles doesn't drink too much and Buttercup drinks _enough_ , then who gives a shit?

She drags her eyes from the floor. The stairs creak behind her. Sharp underneath the fuzz of the leading charts. Cloying giggle. Clacking heels. Coy talk. So sister dearest descends at last. Buttercup doesn't look. She knows, by the shift of weight and the usual change in air (from nonchalant to admiring, because really, Bubbles is a pretty picture; how do you look away from such a thing?) For some godawful reason, something curls sourly in her gut as Bubbles finally trots past – not even noticing Buttercup – and continues on her way into the flurry.

It's not _jealousy_ ; Buttercup has better shit to do with her time than play princess with the nearest prince, but. But nothing. She grabs another cup from the table.

"Gosh, I can't believe it's senior year already! Time flies," Saccharine giddiness tunes to Buttercup's station. Bubbles' dreamy sigh. The wistfulness. What a fucking actress. Maybe that's just her being bitter – bitter Buttercup, biting Buttercup, brazen Buttercup – but she knows for a fact Bubbles is scared to death of the future. Of what comes after school. It's astonishing how easy it is for her to play a different character. Be it flirty princess or wanderlust freelancer, it fits her like a glove. Bubbles has always wanted to please people. It's strange to watch her become a stranger in order to appease other strangers. Unnerving.

Buttercup doesn't know why she's surprised anymore.

Taking a sip, she settles against the wall. Looks like another night of wallflower-ing. Then again, what night isn't like that? Oh, right. The nights when she's nothing at all.

* * *

The hours crawled by. Three kids threw up around the midnight-mark, a girl broke down crying on the staircase, and there was constant hollering from the game of beer pong being held in the basement. The usual. There were instances when people recognized her through a drunken stupor, grinned, blurted out some kind of greeting or pickup-line, maybe both, before being tugged by the current of the party again. Most gave up when she didn't leave the wall. They're easy, like that. They'd die lying down if they could.

Buttercup's personal buzz simmered in just after midnight, probably her tenth or eleventh cup of piss by then. After that, she'd tampered it down with a bottle of cola. Getting shitfaced was for weekends only. But who's to stop a gal to indulge? A gal indulging in gross fucking grog for that matter. It'd be her funeral, right?

However, booze isn't the highest on her priorities anymore. Number one concern: Bubbles. Buttercup hadn't exactly put a cap on the blonde's alcohol intake, but it was nearing one in the morning now, and if Bubbles didn't get home before then – it'd be _both_ their funerals.

It's easy to track down a sheep in a wolf den. She's the main attraction. As always. Dancing on the kitchen counter, belting along to whatever is blaring through the speakers. All golden curls and flushed cheeks. Having fun. Letting go. The other kids love it – encourage it, want more of it. Unsurprising. It's hard not to want a girl like her. Superpowers fall short in the face of social acclimation: they don't want powers; they want to see a goddess fall into the shape of a regular human being. Bubbles is good at that. Fitting shapes. Same point: different subject.

The kitchenette is wild. The lampshade swings precariously from the ceiling. Crammed like sardines in a can. Writhing bodies. Offbeat, out of sync. Musical carnage. Deafening, too. Cheering. Jeering. _Leering_ , most importantly. Time for Buttercup to finally crash the party.

The berth she's given is something akin to the earth splitting under the force of an earthquake. With all these kids around? Buttercup likes to think she's that powerful. Not the point. Point is – getting to Bubbles is easy. Three easy strides before clasping her by the wrist. "C'mon, chanteuse, time to go home," She announces.

After that, it's a mess of giggles and an armful of limp-legged Bubbles. She cups Buttercup's face, cooing, "Oh, sis! When did y'get here?" She's relieved to know she cut Bubbles off before she could get to the vomit-stage of inebriation. Not that this is much better. Clingy and squirming. It's not too much of an issue; Bubbles is small enough to simply pin in a princess-carry (also, it's not like the girl's complaining, drama queen -) but her breath smells like amateur cocktails and the stench of sweat is stuck in her hair. Buttercup wrinkles her nose. This is gonna be a hard one to wash off.

"Oh -" Bubbles breaks into laughter again. Her eyes are dull once they step out of the house. They glaze over in the moonlight. "I bet -" A hiccup - "I bet you were here...to hide from Blosssssssss-uhm again, huh? Y'always do, hm."

Buttercup lets the comment roll like water off her back. "More like, I came to rescue your pudgy ass from making more of a scene," She grouses, wrestling Bubbles into an over-the-shoulder hold as she swipes the last six-pack lingering on the table, "'Sides, it's as if you're _not_ not hiding from Bloss."

The resounding guilty silence is answer enough. Satisfied, Buttercup kicks off into the air. The wooden porch groans in release as she departs, boots scuffing the awning on the way up.

It's not long until Bubbles is whimpering. Struggling to angle her arms to wipe away tears, jostled by Buttercup's constant readjusting and toing-and-froing. The younger girl goes overlooked for about five minutes. Sometimes Bubbles falls asleep before the blubbering starts. Other times, the faucet is wrenched open. Needless to say, Buttercup prefers the knock-out nights; a quick trip home, Bubbles in bed, and nobody is any the wiser. Efficient, that way. No Blossom and Professor on her ass about being late, about not looking after Bubbles, and, _is that beer I smell? Buttercup! What if it was the Professor waiting for you down here, huh, what would he have to say about this?!_ It's always sucked to have an older sister. Especially an older sister that takes their creator's tight-leash to the entire next level. Muzzles and halter-leads, penalty spritzers, two firm fingers over her snout. Cold, piercing eyes, and a disgusted curl of red lips – _mean mean mean_ – sharp nails and acerbic exasperation, being scolded, being ignored, being exiled to her room because she doesn't deserve to be around the family if she's going to have _that_ attitude, and _no_ , she can't go and be 'productive' – _what on earth would you do anyways, Buttercup, shrug off your responsibilities with that stupid bunch of boys you're always around?!_ _I think_ not _. Go to your room_. It's impossible to decipher when Blossom became her mother and not her confidant.

Pitiful whining breaches the whistling wind. Dammit. God-fucking-dammit. Forced to a halt, Buttercup scowls. There's a brief moment of struggle – the six-pack of the sister – before Buttercup wedges the case between her knees and hauls the blonde from over her shoulder. "What is it this time."

Yes, she could've been kinder. Maybe she could have brushed Bubbles' tears away, held her like something to be loved, been the sister she should be. Be the sister Blossom isn't. Yes, she thinks, as she sets her feet on the top of some office building, there are a million different ways Buttercup can strive to be better. Bubbles slumps to the concrete like a sack of rocks. It's unfortunate that Buttercup is no longer motivated to hold onto fetters that her sisters forfeited years ago.

"I – it sucks," Bubbles hiccups. Her heels drag against the ground, knees pulled to her chest. In the moonlight, her hair looks silvery-white, tacky rhinestones on her heels glinting salaciously. Tears like liquid diamonds. "I just want –" Another hiccup, a shuddering inhale – "T-To have fun! Is that…is that too much to as-ss-k?" Her small hands come to wipe her eyes. Mascara smudges and her nose runs.

Buttercup perches on the edge of the building. "Uh huh," She intones dully. Her hands are making quick work of the plastic rings of her beer case, peeling like stretchy taffy in her grasp. The metal has a dull shine to it. Tinny crinkling as the aluminum gives way to her grip; alluring to only the drunk and the desperate. Buttercup is neither.

Her sister continues to natter on in the background. Choking on tears and snotty breaths, close to wailing like children do; aching gasps and wrenching sobs from deep in her chest, her stomach. If she keeps it up, she's going to be sick. Buttercup watches with grim fascination. Those diamond droplets get bigger by the second; fat drops tracking down her makeup, painted lips cringed into an agonized expression. "It's not fair!" Titters out into the night air.

Bubbles' heels clack sharply as she kicks out in the onset of a tippling tantrum. "I wanna be – be a – a – a regular kid," The blonde snivels, "I wanna go t-t-o parhhhhh-tiiiiesssss, an' get _drunk!_ Kiss boys! Be fuh-hhn!" Even liquored up, her voice is melodious. Half-shrieking, it hits Buttercup like a whistle-tone solo. Two glossy, shimmering blue eyes stare at her incredulously. As if Buttercup's silence is surprising. As if being faced with a vague, "Uh huh," is outright blasphemous. Because nobody ignores Bubbles. Not anybody.

 _Bubbles this_ , Buttercup scowls, _Bubbles that_. Bubbles Bubbles Bubbles! Belle of the ball, the center of attention, beloved boastful Bubbles, with baby blue eyes and bombshell blonde hair and bodacious curves to fit that belligerent conviction.

Her baby sister, who comforts herself in the many people she's got wrapped 'round her finger, and cries when somebody realizes that all she's offering is a hollow hull and a false personality. Bubbles, who's scared of being abandoned.

Bubbles, who's throwing up her guts up all over herself.

"Called it," Buttercup sighs. She throws back her beer in one go, throws the empty can into the empty streets, and lazily pulls herself to her feet. She tucks the case under her arm. Wrinkling her nose, she grabs Bubbles under the arms, and sets course for home. The girl whines miserably. Something about a headache. About her sore feet. Burning throat. Tired eyes. Ruined dress.

It's hard to sympathize.

* * *

They get home at 2:38am, and not a soul stirs as they sneak up the stairs. Buttercup's gotten good at this whole creeping 'round thing. Knows to fly up the stairs and stick close to the walls when she reaches the top. The floorboards are more settled there, y'see. Makes good for slinking by unnoticed.

Bubbles' bedroom is tacked up with K-Pop and British boy-band posters, juvenile stickers and cutesy fairy-lights. Nostalgia fragrances the room stronger than any perfume stacked on the white-washed vanity. A shoebox full of newspaper-clipping victories. Framed photos of news-reporter interviews. Polaroids of friends that have come and gone, insta-moments that Buttercup knows she'll never get back. Those same bunny slippers, that familiar friendship bracelet that doesn't fit but Bubbles can't bear to throw out.

It makes Buttercup sick to her back teeth. A family photo on the nightstand. A heart-shape frame. They were eleven, probably, Buttercup beating the growth spurt race by miles, and Blossom growing more into that stern frown framed by copper bangs. And Bubbles, in the middle. Small and sweet. Professor in the background, with that tired-tight smile and hands on Bubbles and Blossom's shoulders. Dammit. Silently, Buttercup places the picture face-down on the nightstand.

Getting Bubbles into the en suite bathroom is less difficult when she's conked out from the booze. It's easier to pretend she's still a kid, too. Bubbles hasn't grown much since she turned eleven. The tiniest, by far, at a petite 5"1. So much life in such a little body. Pudgy cheeks and thick 'round the middle and thighs. If she was taller, her weight would probably settle differently. "Why can't you be this peaceful all the time?" Buttercup hushes to herself.

The older girl makes quick work of the sad heap on the bathroom floor. Vomit-covered dress strewn into the sink, set to soak in hot water. The bedazzled pumps come off with a little prying. They're far too tight, Buttercup makes note; she'll have to buy a new pair, a pair that fit, for her birthday or something. Bubbles has trouble of letting things go. It's not a surprise that she still has these damn things, even if she's outgrown them. After that, it's undergarments that make Buttercup bite the inside of her cheek as she removes them. ( _Frilly. Lacey. Who the fuck was she going to impress?_ ) They're thrown into the laundry hamper with little thought. ( _Too young for that shit._ )

A quick shower later, Buttercup is carrying a pajama-clad Bubbles to bed. Some days, Buttercup finds enough energy to feel vindictive that her baby sister got to keep the California king they shared as infants. Most days, she thinks 'good riddance'. It fits the chokingly-sentimental theme of the bedroom. New bedspread, but same memories. Bubbles looks tinier than ever.

Buttercup absconds before she can agitate herself further. Dark hallway, Professor's snores, and her own bedroom at the end of the hall. Exactly the way she left it; Blossom and all.

There was a time where Buttercup felt guilt slither up her spine and sling around her neck like a collar. Where she'd feel like a bad dog, for making her owner worry. It'd be in reaction to this same sight: Blossom, curled up in Buttercup's bed, clinging to her single pillow in wait of her return. Back then, Buttercup was a different girl. She was ten years old and she missed her best friend, reaching out to her sisters to hold them tighter so they couldn't fall off the face of the earth the same way _he_ did, and she was desperate. Mournful enough to let Blossom clasp a collar 'round her neck and say it was _out of love_ , and she _believed her_. Either out of blinding naivety or out of strangling loyalty, she's not sure which.

Now, Buttercup stares emptily at the display. Blossom's hair spills across the pillow, as silver-toned as Bubbles' in the moonlight cascading from the window. Coated in quicksilver, nightgown draped over her figure like gossamer, prone form laid like a tragic Grecian statue. And still, Buttercup tastes bitter contempt in the back of her mouth.

Nonetheless, her body follows like an automaton; stalks until her shins meet the bedframe, lowering until she can pull Blossom into her arms. Carefully, because waking Blossom is not like prying a damsel from slumber but like alerting a dragon of an intrusion into its lair. (Bubbles is the princess. Blossom is the dragon. Does that make Buttercup the knight, or the guarded hoard?)

Just like she'd done with Bubbles, Buttercup tucks Blossom back into her bed. Her older sister's room is similar to her own; unlived-in. Except, where Buttercup has punched holes and scratched lines, Blossom has hung a calendar and dispersed scented candles. Her walls are an off-white magnolia, with rich-wooden accents. A desk and laptop, a closet, and her queen-sized bed in the middle with a tiny vanity opposite. Barely a room, let alone part of a home. A thin layer of dust touches almost every surface. Like Blossom can't stand being here long enough to dust the place.

Not that Buttercup can relate. Of course not. She – she loves her room, with the oblique-white walls she hasn't painted, the metal bedframe she didn't want, that stupid thrift-store sunflower-print rug she bought impulsively, the never-touched, state-of-the-art, built-in closet that came with the house that she never uses. Buttercup loves living out of boxes. Still in her scruffy labels: _clothes. sports crap._ _memorabi-whatever._ Buttercup simply adores the thought of being a ghost in her own bedroom. Who _doesn't_.

Who needs a homey room when they're barely home?

Upon turning to leave, dainty fingers curl around her wrist. Fuck, she opines. Angling her head down, she meets the fluttering lashes of her sister – eyes like milk-glass in the dim. "Buttercup, wh –" A yawn – "You're home?" Fuck, she grouses again. This time with feeling.

"Yeah."

A light tug. Buttercup goes easy, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Blossom's hand is like a cold-burn on her skin. A trap, she knows, this is an intricate trap just like the rest of them, but how can somebody so gentle-looking and ill-defined be anything but dulcet tones and misty looks?

"And Bubbles?" The girl asks, in that aforementioned tone. Eyes barely open. Deep breaths disturbing her cotton shift; making it look alive with each shallow inhale.

"In her bed," Buttercup assures. She can't keep her voice as lilting as her sister's. It's too harsh in the quiet room. Either because she doesn't know how to whisper (false) or because she's struggling to restrain the resentment trying to creep up her throat. "I'm goin' to bed too," She informs, "Go to sleep, Bloss." With an awkward pat, she's standing and sauntering for the bedroom door. It's a few quick, easy steps – long legs do that, she s'poses – but Blossom's sleep-weary voice makes her hesitate.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. I'm just worried."

There's no answer for that. Buttercup closes the door behind her with a soft click, snagging the case of beer she left outside her door, and squirrels it under her bed before kicking her own door shut. She sinks wearily onto the mattress. The springs creak in the silence. The only indicative thing that comes along when the same gnawing query loops one too many times around her throat is: time to crack open a cold one.

And that is exactly what she does.

The peel of metal is crisp in her otherwise silent room. Long shadows twist oddly on her walls. Passing lights spurn any chances of sleep. Wafer-thin blinds will do nothing to save her. Each sip slugs down her throat better in her lonesome; prickling and settling like ice in her stomach. Perks her right up. From her fingertips to her toes; either falling to a pleasurable numbness or crackling like a livewire; no in between. Exactly what she wanted. It's not like sleep was an option anyways. The next time she looks at her once-was six-pack, the plastic rings stare up at her. Not a spare can to be seen. Figures.

One thing leads to another, finding herself back outside is practically inevitable. Still barely a tangible tingle under her skin, only brought to her attention because of the brisk night air against the lolling warmth surging through her system.

Nighttime Townsville is vastly different from daytime; the built-up area is still awake but drifting, with lights shuttering off around the half-one mark, cars returning to multi-story parking lots, all coming to a standstill for the rest of the night. The suburbia is asleep quicker; dinner by six, all houses dark by eleven. The only disturbances tend to be rambunctious teenagers and the occasional petty crime. Buttercup hasn't seen anything of that nature for almost a year, now. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe bad. She's not one to complain.

The moon is facing the tail-end of full. It strikes a hole through passing clouds, stars like needle points in a spread of navy cotton. She finds herself flying higher. Hands outstretched; some harebrained part of her mind ecstatic at the idea of touching the stars with her fingertips. Like in the movies. The higher she gets, the harsher the biting cold becomes. After a while, she relents: Buttercup descends back to towering office buildings, feet scuffing the roof of some old apartment building. (Except, it's not just _some old apartment building_. It homes a boy that makes seven years of suppressed anger come rushing to the surface.)

His window is dark.

Of course it is, she admonishes, who the fuck is actually awake this late? She reclines until her back is flush with the cool concrete beneath her. The sky ebbs and sways above her, rippling like the tide on the oceanfront, complete opposites but – but what? Where was she going with that?

Frowning, Buttercup props herself up on her elbows. Her eyelids feel heavier, now that she's no longer back at the house, now that the threat of a cold icicle being shoved at her throat has been abated, the soreness of her eyes quickly becomes the sole focus of her attention. The involuntarily fluttering of eyelashes – snapping her eyes open, lulling them shut, tearing them open again. Goddammit. Her head cracks painfully as she falls back again. The sensation is acute; stabbing behind her eyes, down the base of her skull.

A little shuteye won't hurt. Right? It's perfect; low activity, clear skies, not too hot or cold. Temperate. Illuminated by the sweet caress of silvery light from above, cloaked comfortingly in the shadow of the AC box. Slowly, Buttercup curls up against the box. Gentle ambiance muffles the haunting silence. The hum of street lamps. Ocean tide sloshing against the shore only a half-mile away. Nocturnal critters scampering around. Wind through trees.

Her eyes close. They don't open again.

Behind her eyelids, she's a girl. Most of her dreams traverse this course. She's ten-and-a-half (and it matters, because that sort of thing is important when you're pretending to be a normal kid, it's a thing all the other kids concern themselves with,) and she's being told that they have to move house. The exact words are no longer clear; Professor's remorseful tiptoeing is the real hitter, though, prying her world from its foundations with clinical ease.

It was something about needing to find a fresh start. She remembers that much. Needing to leave behind this house – this home – of heinous hardship. To start their adolescence with a clean slate. To know a life unmarred by fickle boys and ferocious heroism; to live as normal kids do, he said, now that the monster barrier has passed with flying colors.

The words that do flow from his mouth, however, are antiseptic and clear, sharp like a scalpel and wrapped in green latex: _time to forget what it feels like to sink teeth into prey, girls_. It's the same flashing moments. Ringing in her ears – flatline in a clinic or tinnitus from an explosion? – her sisters shrinking from her peripherals as her creator snaps those green gloves onto his dexterous hands. Her vision tunnels. _Green. Green. Green._

She struggles. From her right, Blossom brandishes a syringe full of what looks to be cola, fizzing and bubbling, and Bubbles pins her down with a simple question. _Do you_ want _this to hurt?_ Coca-Cola sedative is administered into her arm. Her limbs become leaden. Her head lolls on the cot. Her vision vignettes, sunflare on a camera lens.

A pair of pliers enter her sights, followed by those green latex gloves, attached to the Professor. He smiles primly, like he's trimming in the garden. Crow-feet appear in the corners of his eyes. _Hold still,_ His chipper voice instructs, _this is for the safety of Townsville, understand?_ The pliers near her mouth. Closer. Closer. Closer. She can practically taste the metal on her tongue, that subdued stuttering of her heart, the flexing of her fingers and sluggish widening of her eyes – not quite panic, because this is a dream, she knows, and the same thing happens each time. Her blood starts bubbling from her gums like that soda sedative – a wet splitting sound as one of her molars is pried from her mouth. Her mouth starts pooling with a red fizzing mess.

Distantly, Bubbles makes a choked sound. Disgusted, surely, even as her hand pets Buttercup's hair in a mockery of soothing a dog. She whispers saccharine nothings under her breath.

Buttercup groans, strangled from the back of her throat. Something like _calm down, Buttercup, it's not the end of the world, it's just moving house_ , and that's far from her list of priorities. It's nursing the bile rising in her throat. The shock trapped in her bones, the raw soreness forming behind her eyes as she holds back tears, the six-month-old hurt foaming rabidly along her snarling lips.

Soon, all her teeth are gone, and Professor is brandishing a muzzle. He holds it above her face expectantly, waiting for her to press her face obediently into the leather. _Be a good girl, Buttercup,_ The man sighs. An out. A last chance. A warning.

She thrashes. Her mouth feels gummy, like she's stuffed too many sticks of bubblegum to chew at once, tongue heavy and warm fluids dribbling down her cheek. An aborted sound crawls out of her mouth.

Professor clicks his tongue with distaste, before instructing Blossom to hold her head still whilst he dresses her up like a bad dog. _I need to be sure you won't hurt people, Buttercup,_ one of them says, maybe both, all three of them – they twist and stretch into one monolith; a three-headed beast that wears concern and comfort like a deceitful shawl. And still, she cannot move.

The muzzle sits awfully on her face. The leather digs in under her eyes and over her nose, too tight as it ties around the back of her head. They're all mithering as she claws at the contraption. To be good. To behave. To at least try to please them, to fit the mold they made for her, to be grateful for this fresh start. It's as if they expect a 'thank you' for rendering her useless. No teeth. How is she supposed to defend the city now?

Professor repeats what he had said before, in that same assuaging tone: _time to become prey, girl._ Except, she's pretty sure that's not what he said originally. Buttercup never wanted to become prey. She's a natural predator, knows blood like brandy, feels it drool out of her mouth.

The three-headed monster grows ever larger. Buttercup is still so small. Ten-and-a-half years old and fighting back tears, because the sole essence of who she is – gone, in a single decision. A choice that was out of her hands. She fights against the sudden hands grappling her down, pulling her claws from her muzzle. Trapped once more. The blinding overhead lights, the monotonous ringing-turned-screaming, sounding suspiciously like a dog yelping as it's dragged to the curb.

No matter how many times she dreams this, it's impossible to tell if that's her screaming or not.

The clinic falls away as soon as she sits up. She drags a clumsy hand to the back of her muzzle; unclasped, it falls into her lap. Frothing beer spills from her mouth rabidly. Barnacles accumulate in time with ragged breaths, rotten wood planks paneling out into the deep waters. Her hands lean back on eroded rocks. The ringing turns into the corny music of the boardwalk; dazed, the colored lights of the ferris wheel blur in her peripherals.

A creeping wave takes her muzzle into the blue beyond. Coughing up the last of the alcohol from her mouth, she swathes her tongue over open gums. Already, the points of her teeth are breaching the surface. Sharper than before. More dangerous. This time, Buttercup will not go down without a fight.

A notebook falls into her lap. She looks up, watching pages flutter down like the beginnings of autumn. Envelopes and torn-out papers, all starting with that forbidden B-word. Peering at the notebook in her lap, she runs fingers along the jagged spine; half-empty, from all the papers she's torn from it. A less conventional way to use a journal, sure, but the dim recollection of the school counsellor suggesting she write her feelings out reveals itself on the beach that has been covered in _utter fucking trash_.

Once again, the tide reaches out; it drags the papers into the deep. Never to be seen again. Sodden memories captured by the foamy reach of the cool water. Like always, she cups the water in her hands, and swills it around in her mouth. The sting is almost…nice, irritating her mouth like nothing else, simultaneously a salty layer of balm over gaping wounds. She spits out red. No longer fizzy, like cola, but the subtle bubbles and froth of a topped-off lager.

It's this part that always catches her up: _Apple-cherry or lime and lemon?_

The scuff of worn sneakers on the surf sounds like home. The consequential thud, a stick of apple-cherry gum wavering in her sights as he wobbles for a second. She takes the popsicle. "Thanks," She mutters, as if it's that easy, as if life will always be this moment on the beach with her best friend during the summer. She's younger now. She knows it.

That's how it goes. No longer ten-and-a-half but simply ten. The last summer before he left. His face is always the last thing to come into existence. First his hands, with that changeless choice; bruised knuckles and blood under his fingernails. His shoulder, his chest, torso, down to his feet. Old shirt. Torn jeans. His shirt doesn't fully cover his midriff because of how quickly he shot up during the school year; she supposes his guardian (certainly not Mojo, not full-time anyway, but he's never been clear on that -) hasn't bought him some new clothes to accommodate.

 _No problem, suncup._ Always with the nicknames.

She doesn't remember where this one comes from.

Stuffing a wad of apple-cherry gum into his mouth, he turns to look at her. There's no escaping his gaze. Too dark for a kid, but perfectly dark for a kid like…Butch. Wicked grin, rosy cheeks. _Y'ready furra thummer o'fuhn?_ He garbles.

The popsicle soothes her sore mouth. Just like the memory recalls, her grin matches his own; they look like a pair of Siamese twins, somebody told her once – joined at the hip, probably shared an entire brain between them – "Definitely. Just hope I can…actually _relax_ , for once."

Butch hums sympathetically. He pats her shoulder the same way. _Well,_ He smacks his lips wetly, _Gueth tha's weally up 'o usth_. And maybe he's right, maybe it really _was_ up to them, until he shipped off to fuck-knows where and left her to drown.

Buttercup watches everything in her sights begin to crumble. As if every collision she's ever caused has been compiled into this single recall; first it's the boardwalk sinking into the waters, then the water itself: the world swallowing everything, concave, leaving a black void in its wake. The air rushes from her lungs when the sand falls from beneath her. She crunches down on her popsicle, mouth numb, bones cold, and she turns to Butch –

He is all that is left. Hovering like there's nothing wrong, pulling the gum out from his mouth in long tacky strings before chewing them up all over again. Looking at him makes all thoughts disappear. It's just _him_. Ten years old in a consuming vacuum, with a smile made for boys much, much sweeter than himself. Wild hair. Wild eyes. He's closing in, like always, too close in her space but the idea of pushing him away is painful.

"Wake up." That certainly isn't part of the script.

"Buttercup –" Butch's voice softens – " _Wake up_."

She blinks, expecting Butch to be gone – but he's still there. Older, with furrowed brows, and the dark backdrop has given way to a sky full of stars. It's like the face he made when they were screaming on the school field; hurt, panicked, fumbling. His lips part slightly as a relieved breath escapes. It slips away in a cloud of fog.

Buttercup manages a groggy sound. Butch pulls away as she sits up – in tandem, how contrite – and stares at her as if he's never seen her before. Like she's just _some girl_ he found collapsed on the sidewalk. The unfamiliarity kills. "Mff…" Her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth.

A surveying glance tells her she's back in the city-side of Townsville. Right where she left. Quiet breezes nip at her skin as they pass, and the desert beyond the outskirts stares emptily. Eerily similar to that in her dream. "Fuck." She brings a hand to her forehead. There's a throbbing behind her eyes that carries the force of a sledgehammer each time. Pounding. Her hand slips to her mouth as her eyes cut back to the boy crouched by her: an unavoidable action.

As kicked-puppy as ever.

He has the fucking nerve to look hurt, after everything?All 6"5 of him, curled up like he's waiting to be berated, offering pitiful side glances in the face of her assimilating composure. His hair waves softly in the night breeze. Cheeks flushed from the chill. Picking blood from his fingernails nervously. Too big for the shirt he's wearing, rumpled jeans loose on his hips. There's no sign of change. It's like he never left.

It's that recurring thought. It's been with her for days. From the first glimpse of him in the mall, to the awkward meal at the diner, to school, to ditching school – _he. hasn't. changed._ Dumb and young. Bravado slipping when it's just the two of them, even if she hates him, hates him to his fucking core, the mask slips right off and clatters to the concrete.

Deep breaths. Words are difficult to fathom. A single glance in his direction sends sharp shooting pains into her chest, and the mere thought of him being close enough to touch brings forth the urge to throttle him by the throat and cast him off the side of the building. It wouldn't be hard – sure, he's bigger, but she's quick; the element of surprise will throw him off, she'll hold his neck until he goes blue, then toss him aside just – just like…he did…to her.

 _But he's your best friend_ , a small voice insists. It's echoey from the back of her head; distant, soft around the edges. Her own voice. Maybe it's because she's just been woken up, maybe she's still stuck _back then_ , but a contrasting monologue runs on a parallel track to her previous train of thought. She shouldn't hurt him. He's her best – was her best friend. He's giving her puppy eyes. He still fiddles with his jeans when he's guilty. He woke her up before she could start crying.

And he's sitting awfully still.

"What do you want, Butch?" Buttercup asks wearily.

Immediately, he scoffs, animated from the top of his head to the tips of his toes as he shifts in a way that nonchalantly shrugs off her question. "What, can't a guy check on a girl? Just being a decent human being, jeez." It's enough of a giveaway: he's still anxious. Gnawing at his lip. Wriggling his toes over the drop. Not looking at her. Figures.

"…Right," She relents. Standing, she brushes off her thighs and blows loose hair from her face, "Well, the girl's fine. Boy can go home now." Butch gives her an undecipherable look.

She's about to step off the roof when his voice pulls her back. "So is this – a thing, now? Drinking? Stayin' out late?" He paws at the air, gesturing to the whole of her. Head to toe. What the fuck would he know? Jerk. Before Buttercup can even bare her teeth, he's retreating, head tucked between his shoulders. His eyes flash like mirrors under the moon. "Look, just. Be safe."

"As if you'd give a shit."

Then she's gone.

How all of their interactions seem to go: brief, curt, abrupt. Ending as soon as they started. Always with her leaving. It's no surprise, really; one of them has to do it. He's already had enough of running away. Now it's her turn. Buttercup doesn't look back.

(Okay, so maybe she looks back. Not that he'd be any the wiser. Butch is too busy turning his mournful gaze to the ground, shoulders hunched. Painted slate-gray in the night, he looks like some kind of tormented statue carved by a tortured artist. A marbled goliath. A sad boy. Then he returns to his bedroom. His window is light.)

She has a cold bed waiting for her.

* * *

The sun has yet to breach the horizon when Buttercup wakes up. She's shaking, skin clammy, throat dry, and the familiar feeling of her stomach twisting itself into knots. Though her mouth is pooling with saliva, it's hard to figure out her left leg from her right one – the sheets grasp her in a cruel tangle; freed only when she manages to kick her way from the bed.

Fuck.

Buttercup knows by now that if she tries to fly hungover that it won't end well. So stumble she does. Through the door, down the hall (quietly, however, she's gotten good at that,) and to the bathroom. She shuts the door behind her with a click.

It's rehearsed by now. Mouth clamped shut, sinking to her knees in front of the toilet bowl. Cue vomit. Eyes watering and throat burning, hacking up whatever she drank last night. No matter how many times this happens, it'll never be a welcome feeling. Or welcome at all. Buttercup kneels until her stomach is definitely empty. She spits.

The migraine storms in the second she sits back. A thick thudding behind her eyes; pounding and pounding and hissing her name through the door, dainty knuckles on wood and a frantic tone to the, " _Buttercup! Buttercup, hurry up!_ " She blinks her eyes open. Her stomach groans as she swings her head to the doorway, trying to place the voice to a face – any, really, but stops when it's _his_ face that appears in her mind. Buttercup squints.

" _I'm gonna hurl and I'll make you clean it up_ ," The voice hisses again. Bubbles. Next thing she knows, she's standing, pulling the bathroom door open just to watch a blur of blonde zip to where she'd just been kneeling. The girl grimaces at the unflushed bowl: it's enough to jump-start her queasiness.

Tuning out the sounds of retching, Buttercup slinks away from the bathroom. The hallway is still dark. Not quite morning, but the sounds of Professor waking up slip from beneath his door. Buttercup wrinkles her nose, and takes it as a hint to hurriedly sneak back to her bedroom – no point in being lectured for something she already knows is bad. Not that he's any the wiser. Buttercup swipes her wastebasket the second she enters her room: she spits again. The aftertaste is enough to make her want to spew again.

Sighing, Buttercup leans against her door. A telltale flush sounds from behind, followed by the guttural noises of the pipes, then the shriek of the faucet and some more gargling. She closes her eyes to the noise.

Buttercup yawns. Her feet carry her sluggishly, barely picking up from the cold floor, and the mattress protests as she sinks into it.

* * *

She's awake by the time her alarm sounds. Eyes sore from staring at the ceiling. The lights through her blinds merged from the red of sunrise to the peach-yellow of early morning. A far cry from the cool blues that'd been the hour before the sun even neared the horizon line. The dawn chorus started up about fifteen minutes ago.

Twenty minutes ago, Blossom's alarm had gone off. Buttercup had listened to Blossom's morning routine through the walls; floorboards creaking as she tiptoed to her vanity, the subtle click of her nails on the vanity as she picked up her hairbrush, more whining hardwood and ruffling fabric as she got dressed. Bubbles' routine had been mostly the same, albeit later; her phone chirped at her about ten minutes ago. A pouty moan, the clumsy grappling for her phone, a _flump_ as she rolled onto the floor; followed by shuffling and creaking, crawling to her unit to grab her clothes for the morning. Bubbles' door opening with little to say, and then her return trip to the bathroom for a shower.

Buttercup wonders if she even remembers what happened last night. Does Bubbles remember Buttercup giving her a shower? Or better yet, avoiding her own en suite bathroom in favor of throwing up in the family bathroom? The thought makes her snort. Probably not. Bubbles has always been a lightweight.

It takes a while for somebody to knock on her door. It's Blossom; go figure. "I can hear your alarm from out here, Buttercup! Get up already." When Buttercup doesn't respond, there's a sigh – heavy and worn and irritated – but then Blossom's walking back down the hall. As usual. No longer pestering; Buttercup gets this one chance, nowadays, and then her sister's at her throat. As if it means anything. As if Buttercup will be scared into submission. As if.

Still, Buttercup swings her feet to the floor. Cold. Clammy. _Cruel_ , she wants to say, but it'd be more directed herself than the floor. Biting her cheek, Buttercup pulls off yesterday's clothes (they smell like beer, they smell like sweat and bad dreams, and Blossom is a sniffer hound for that kind of shit.) She shuffles over to the boxes piled in the corner, pulling out a plain tank-top and a pair of cut-offs. It's not like anybody's gonna be looking at her anyway.

A wry smile creeps up onto her face. Nobody's looked at her for a while now. Not with interest, anyway. It's fascinating to think she's fallen so far from grace in these past few years; from heroine to heroin addict ( _allegedly_ ,) from obedient dog to stray mutt, from – from a friend to a stranger. She thumbs the fabric of her denim shorts for a moment, debating. She puts them back in the box. Pulls out a pair of torn-up jeans and slips them on. The waistband is looser than she remembers.

"It's cold," She excuses herself, "Gotta dress for it." Despite it having never dropped lower than the sixties for as long as she's been around. It's not because she's kicked her esteem down a couple notches. No, definitely not that. Buttercup pulls the shirt over it, before shouldering on her old bomber jacket.

Everybody's already eating at the table when she arrives at the bottom of the stairs. The domestic clink of silverware on ceramic, Bubbles' humdrum chatter, the Professor's quiet encouragements as he digs into his eggs and bacon. Blossom is the only one to give her a stern glower as she sits at the table.

Purposefully ignorant, Buttercup dishes up a meager serving onto her awaiting plate. Her stomach is still clenched oddly. Sour aftertaste in the back of her mouth, even as she chugs down half her orange juice in one go. Nobody talks to her. Nobody tries to get her to open up about how she slept, what she got up to yesterday, what's waiting for her today. Buttercup, like most days, thinks she'd rather eat in silence than have to think through a coherent conversation. Though, she knows her hangover is the culprit.

 _Missing_ the old morning routine would be a little too strong. Because she doesn't miss it. She's content to soak up the morning sun through the window. Admire Bubbles – hiding her own hangover in her own way, chirpy and chipper – and how she can natter on without giving herself a headache. Maybe lean into the hair-ruffle Professor gives her. What Buttercup does miss is the firm knowledge that her presence meant something. Half the time, it's like she's a ghost. Most days, she's starting to question if that bothers her too.

Blossom is staring knives at her. She arches an eyebrow, knowing full well what Blossom almost dares to bring up at the table. 'Almost' being the functioning word here. Buttercup shovels a forkful of eggy bacon into her mouth.

Blossom wants to continue interrogating her about how she's missed school on the first day. In front of the Professor. They both know he'll be upset and disappointed to hear the news, know there will be some kind of punishment (that Buttercup won't abide by) put into place. What does Blossom think she's gaining by this silent threat? Buttercup can still walk out whenever she wants.

The school isn't going to notify the Professor. They'll think she's off being doing hero-duty, as they always do. Too dumb to really acknowledge that the monster barrier has taken effect. Besides, monster barriers don't prevent the humans from doing the harm.

Smirking connivingly around her next bite, Buttercup stares Blossom right in the eye. A challenge. _What are you gonna do about it?_ Something she hadn't asked yesterday. Maybe it was the heat of the moment, leaving it unfinished like that. Walking away like she always does. Unwilling to listen – not to Blossom, not now, not then, because Blossom no longer listens to her. It's a two-way road, she figures. When will Blossom learn that?

When did Blossom forget that?

Getting to school is a blur after that. Wind in her hair and her ears. The whizz of cars below. Busy street life. Far fetched from the suburbia they moved into, the buildings tall like glaciers in a rift, and she's drifting from the blue and pink streaks, blind and deaf to Blossom calling for her to get back on track, and suddenly she's standing in front of a little street-front shop.

The shop in itself is familiar. How she got there isn't. She enters all the same, hand pressed to the cool metal handle, the bell chiming as she steps in. the shelves are lined heavily with alcohol. She knows how it goes by now: liquor at the back, behind the counter. Alcopops in the refrigerated section, next to the whiskeys. Rums and gins to the right. Cheap piss in the general center shelves. Cigarettes also behind the counter. Buttercup has much interest for those.

She meets eyes with the shop owner over the many shelves separating them. Ducking under the ceiling light, Buttercup grabs a bottle of Corona on her way to the counter. "Hey Tim." Her voice is a little too airy for the dark reclusion of the shop.

Tim squints at her. He's a short man, grisly white beard and handlebar mustache on top. His skin is worn old and leathery. Even as he scans the bottle, he gruffs, "Ain't even eight o' clock yet."

Buttercup just winks, "Call it a treat for later."

The man holds out his calloused hand; she deposits her cash into his palm. He sells admittedly cheap – she's had yet to ask if it's a discount because she's a Townsville protector, or if it's because she hasn't reported him for selling drinks singular yet. She never would – no point. It'd only raise suspicion as to why an underage girl is snooping 'round in a liquor store. Also because she likes Tim. He's a chill dude.

"No drinkin' an' flyin'," He grouses as she leaves the store.

"Don't want a DUI," Buttercup scoffs, even as she uncaps the bottle and downs half of it as her feet leave the ground. The door swings shut in the breeze.

The sun beats heavily in the early morning; bright and bold and brilliant, against her skin, in her veins, warm and fuzzy - a buzz, something alive in her stomach and tingling at the tips of her fingers. Buttercup aims for a dumpster below as she flies past – the telltale slump of the empty bottle hitting black bags meets her ears. After that, Buttercup kicks up the speed. She's weaving between buildings, spanning her arms out between twists and turns. Maybe it was a good idea she wore jeans after all.

No cloud cover means no retained heat. The weather's mid-sixties, sure, the usual fall temperature, but it doesn't feel like it. Especially forty/mph (ish) against the gales washing over from the shore. Huffing, Buttercup curls her arms around herself. She focuses more on the usual route to school, feeling once more like a ghost trailing its lifetime routine. It's more direct than all the detours she'd been playing at.

As her school comes into view – miserable fucking bricked cuboid that it is – she swerves clear of the familiar faces. Bubbles will be surrounded by a hoard and a half and clinging to some guy's arm as she enchants them all with her charisma. Blossom will be with Robin, probably, or meandering idly through the halls as she makes smalltalk with teachers. And anybody else that makes it to Buttercup's 'Avoid Until Bell' list aren't worth mentioning. Mostly.

She stops behind the school. The staff parking lot is eerily silent; deadened by the mute shadows leering over, the cigarette butts on the ground, the defaced brickwork just behind her. Buttercup sinks to the ground, head back against said brickwork. Her eyelids suddenly drag heavy, breaths deep.

All-nighters aren't usually an issue. But she has pulled five in a row this past week. Not anything new, but she should know by now that coming to school in this kind of funk is bound to end in tragedy. A yawn pries her mouth open.

Staying here all day wouldn't be too bad, she figures. It's quiet. The only people that come back here are the delinquent kids – and some of those happen to the boys; Harry, the twins…Mitch. Bar Mitch, that wouldn't be too bad. Harry probably has his pack of cards, they could play some games with the twins as usual background bickering. The feel of waxy card in her hands would be comforting. The familiar _shick shick shick_ as Lloyd shakes a box of _Mike and Ikes_. That'd be a good day.

Or if she stayed here all alone, Buttercup probably wouldn't complain. Being alone of her own volition is better than forcefully being left. She grits her teeth. What's worse is having to extract herself from a group. That always sucks. What sucks more is that she's done all three – being left, being forced to leave, purposely avoiding people so she can be by herself.

Heaviness settles over her chest. She folds her arms over her knees, closing her eyes as she rests her chin on her arms. Goddammit. A sigh forces through her nose. The resulting sound is smothered by the whistle of the wind slipping between the parked cars ahead of her.

Birds chatter in the overarching trees. Copses of them scatter the area. Either in the green patches bordered by the curb, or the stubborn aspens that disrupt the asphalt. Buttercup's never figured out why, for such a desert-choked place, the greenery thrives. Maybe it's the minerals in the ground. Or maybe the soil's just pumped with chemicals, like the rest of the state. Perhaps being so close to the coast has something to do with it. The surf bringing sea minerals, soaking into the soil so the trees can grow.

Buttercup wishes her soil still had nutrients. Or anything that grows. At all. She feels like a dead bush most of the time. Waking up is like prying herself from dry dirt; it sticks to her. Orifices packed with bland fucking soil. In her eyes, her nose, between her teeth. The crustiness seems to follow her throughout the day. No roots from budding plants. No pretty petals to show for her struggles. If she has struggles, that is. Depends on the definition, she supposes.

Even as she opens her eyes, the soreness only seems to come tenfold. Breathing slow and heavy, toes numb as she wriggles them in her boots. Like this body isn't even hers. Another yawn.

Crunching asphalt makes her snap her eyes open again. When did she close them? The steps near with wandering steadiness, clearly in no real hurry, but the tempo is familiar and the shift in weight makes her hackles raise – those grotty fucking shoes make her want to bite her tongue.

Buttercup's on her feet faster than she can think, already knowing who it is before he fully rounds the corner. The thought of her a green streak being left in her wake barely makes it through the guards juddering up. She's gone before he can put his other foot down.

The gentle, "You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me," Buttercup hears is blamed on the breeze.

Heart racing, she slams her feet down onto the roof. Hands pulling at her hair, teeth grit together, breaths coming out stuttered and heated and angry – she feels like a fucking bomb waiting to explode. The fucking – that stupid fucking – _he's everywhere!_ All her private spaces, he's invading. She can't stop him.

She probably could, but she won't. It'd just give her away. Show she's more affected than she lets on, proves she's _weak and fragile_ , can't handle a new (old) face back in town, can't handle…change. Buttercup sinks to the concrete once more, cuddled up small by the fan-box. Her face presses against her palms. Her chest is still heaving; throat tight, a lingering blankness beginning to coat over her thoughts.

Gripping her sleeves harder than necessary earns the odd sound of threat tearing. She blinks, staring blankly at the seams of her jacket; it's old by any standard, but the sight of having pulled apart where the sleeve meets the shoulder only pours ice-cold water on her coaxed fire. She blinks again. Just for good measure. The yellowed padding is pushing the seam harder. Slowly, she raises a hand to cover the tear. She frowns. Unsure how to react.

Disappointment seeps through the cracks. Settles like some makeshift cement, only making her feel colder. Buttercup releases her hold. She tips her head back against the metal box. Fuck sake.

School hasn't even started yet.

Buttercup groans to herself quietly, pressing her face back into her hands. Eyes closed. The breeze feels colder than before, more insistent, trying to push her over. Push her away. Just like…everybody else does. Sighing, she pulls her knees back to her chest. "Stupid fucking _Butch_ ," She hisses.

Stupid Butch. Making her run away – no, she left of her own volition, she decided to leave. She was totally in control of the situation. Not struck by fear; fear of rejection, of another argument, of yet another row of shouts and hurts and the inevitable end of Buttercup hitting Blossom where it hurts, and turning away like she didn't hurt herself, like it's normal to just scream until your throat is hoarse –

Except that wasn't Blossom down there. That was Butch. And Butch doesn't deserve half the shit she's throwing at him; he's just become another face she doesn't want to see, can't stand looking at, because her chest gets all weird and tight and her eyes prick, and the memories come rushing in –

(Being out on the pier, being down in the wreckage site, being around in the arcade. Laughing until her stomach ached. Seeing him tip his head back and cackle because he's a crazy feral boy and she's a stupid rabid girl, and everything was good back then. Best friends. Them against the world. But then he up and vanished: he _left_ , and all Buttercup could do was try and guess which plane in the sky was the one carrying him away. What kind of friend did that? What kind of person had enough gall to just – to just… _leave?_ )

But that doesn't excuse her from mixing Butch up with Blossom. They're two separate problems. She knows this. It's just – after nights like that, after having to play _big sis mom chaperone stranger_ to Bubbles, it's hard to differentiate. They meld into this scary conglomerate. Big, with mean eyes and dog teeth, four different voices and claws sharpened with old arguments. Towering over her. Imposing and resolute; immovable object to her unstoppable force, and the standstill is always the same: _Why are you like this? Why can't you look at me? Why do you blame me?_

Each time, Buttercup struggles for an answer.

Shrunken small, pinned under a monstrous claw, breath gone and eyes dry and mouth stuffed with cotton. She never says the right thing. Her default is violent. Her default is _bite_ , and maybe that's why all her dreams revolve around the idea of pliers in her mouth. Bark has never been a bluff of hers.

Idly, she wonders what her school counsellor would say if she imparted any of this. Granted, Buttercup hasn't set foot in that office – or any counsellor's office – since she was ten-and-a-half. Maybe Ms Gardner wouldn't remember her. Or anything she said – perhaps Buttercup has fallen into the mirage of countless other helpless children that struggle to understand themselves, another case gone awry, just a child that the guidance counsellor didn't care enough to follow through with.

Buttercup imagines she'd say something like this: "Have you tried writing it down, hon?" Same nasal-dry voice. Semicircular glasses on the end of her crooked nose, knuckles pockmarked and eyes bagged from age. Tweed blazer uncomfortably tight; drab enough to match the interior of the office.

She shivers just thinking about it. There's the obvious knowledge that the Professor would probably have something more insightful to say, if she had the nerve to even talk to him. Nowadays, he's rarely around; if he is, he's unavailable. The monster barrier requires a shit ton of maintenance and time. Meaning, less time for his daughters. It's not a big deal – Buttercup's lived like that for years before the monster barrier was set in place; if it wasn't maintenance of the barrier, it was building the barrier, and if it wasn't building it was planning. The unnerving inkling gets her every time without fail: the girls were just a temporary solution to a constant problem. Monster barrier means the need for the girls has depleted over time. That's a good thing. It's also – a bad thing. On a more personal level. (If Buttercup isn't needed as a superhero, then what is she?)

The shriek of the bell tears her from her thoughts. Sluggishly, she pulls to her feet. The streams of students that rush through to the doors of the building, they look like marching ants. Crushable. Gritting her teeth, Buttercup descends into the masses below, shuffling slowly behind the straggling bulk of teenagers. Buttercup is the last one into the building.

As she saunters to her locker, one thing becomes heavily apparent: she left her backpack at home. Buttercup purses her lips, staring blankly at the beaten red of her locker. "Are you fucking serious?" Hisses through her teeth.

She should've bought a six-pack.


End file.
